


Mysteries of Rathlin Academy: Year 1 - To the Lighthouse

by SBishoptheBard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry Potter, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBishoptheBard/pseuds/SBishoptheBard
Summary: Krystelle Gandy is your typical young British witch at Rathlin Academy of Arts (and Magic), a school as ancient as Hogwarts and with just as many secrets. As she starts her first year, she'll befriend a collection of familiar faces from the Adventures of Harriet Potter by Kleinnak. Between all of them, they may yet discover what haunts the Ben Side Lighthouse, and why it's been acting out...





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Adventures of Harriet Potter: Year 1(Definitive Edition)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2230386) by [Kleinnak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleinnak/pseuds/Kleinnak). 



> The Potterverse setting is owned by JK Rowling

“ _Daddy's home - daddy's home - to stay_  
How I've waited for this moment  
To be by your side  
Your best friend wrote and told me  
You had teardrops in your eyes  
Daddy's home - daddy's home - to stay”

-Daddy’s Home, Shep and the Limelights, 1961

 

Little Fern Mantovani was running. She didn’t think of where, or how far, or how out of breath she was. She didn’t notice that she’d lost her slippers in the mud a few yards back, or even that she’d cut her foot on a rock. She barely noticed the heat and sting of her tears through the rain. As the distance between her and the Academy widened, and the storm came down harder, all the small child could think of was her Daddy, and her awful Mummy.

Fern’s mind was racing. _How could she do this?_ _Daddy’s good. He’s funny and nice and he’s always there when_ _Mummy’s_ _working. What did he do wrong? Or is it me? Am I in trouble? Is this because I don’t ever clean my room? She’s gonna take me away just for that?_

Mummy and Daddy had been fighting when she slipped off to get on the big boat to school. Was that the reason they got a divorce? Maybe if she said she was sorry they’d get back together? It’s not like they’d notice; Mummy was never around anyway. Fern couldn’t even remember the last time she made it to her birthday party. Would Daddy be allowed to go to her next one? It was coming up in March. Daddy said he’d get her a wand for her ninth birthday. He said it was a little early but she was studying hard and she deserved it. Was she not going to be allowed a wand anymore; not ever?

 _What if that’s why they’re splitting up? Daddy’s a wizard, I’m a witch, and Mummy’s just a Muggle. What if she wants_ me _to be a Muggle like her? Yeah, that must be it. Must be_ _. Mummy’s_ _just a dumb, stupid Muggle like they said at school. All Muggles are dumb and dirty and they just want to hurt us because we can do things they can’t. They were right, we shouldn’t even let them in at school! They were right they were —_

Suddenly Fern’s fist hit a slab of stone. She halted, sliding hard into the wall, and fell backwards into the mud, grasping her poor hurt hand. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears and feel it in her head as she curled up and heaved heavily into her own belly, her clothes soaked through from the rain. She felt numb to everything, wanting nothing more than to just fall asleep right here and never ever wake up.

“Who approaches, Mistress Artemis?”

  
The voice was warm and flowery, like a lady in a commercial. Fern’s ear perked up. Who said that? 

“A child, Calla. Hurt and betrayed.” This voice sounded older.

“She is lost.” This voice sounded deep, strong, but still like a lady.

  
“Aye, Ariana,” the old voice agreed, “and I suspect she will not be found.” 

“Not for a while yet, mistress.” The warm one sounded sad.

She could hear them, all different voices, kind and soothing, like Professor Russell from the Big School, the one who tried to keep Mummy out of the dorms.

 _Mummy…_ _._

Suddenly, she started weeping again, reminded of why she was here.

“Ahhhh…’tis her parents, mistress. Or am I mistaken?”

“Her mother, I should think. This has been a long time coming.”

“Ooo, can I be her new mother? No one would find her here.”

“No, Calla. The castle is for us alone. People would take notice if we just took in any poor soul to come too close.”

“Oh, can’t she at least visit, Artemis? Look at her. She’ll catch her death out here.” 

Just then, Fern looked up, wiping her eyes. 

“Who...who’s saying that?” she asked, feeling more curious than scared, “Where are you? Are you ghosts?” 

She felt a hand on her shoulder, soft yet strong, and at this touch, her small form began to relax, her eyes dry. She felt a tender warmth spreading from her shoulder down through her whole body. She closed her eyes again, turned, and as if by instinct, embraced the woman behind her. 

And just like that, for little Fern, all was right with Rathlin Island once more.

***

“Feeeeeeern!” Krystelle yelled from underneath Dr. Watkins’ umbrella.

“Miss Mantovani!” yelled the Deputy Headmaster even louder.

“Fern! Come on, you’ll get hurt!”

Krystelle held Dr. Watkins’ electric torch steady as the two trumped through the storm under his umbrella, his cane clicking against the rocks as he limped on. She felt terrible for poor Fern, but she also kind of felt annoyed by her right now. It was well rotten that her parents were getting a divorce, but they said Mrs. Mantovani was going to make Fern a star; bring her into the family business in Paris. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

“Oh God,” Watkins gasped, stopping them in their tracks, “The castle.” 

“Castle?” said Krystelle, “You mean the ruins?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, shaking his head, “I was just thinking aloud. Come, step lightly Ms. Gandy, mind you don’t slip.”

The two continued on, Krystelle clutching her heavy moleskin robes closer as the wind picked up. Her nose crinkled as she faintly smelt the sea on the wind. Daddy had bought them for her two Christmases ago, when he got promoted at Flamel Enterprises. That was before she started going to Rathlin’s primary school, and they were certainly coming in handy now. It had been a particularly cold and stormy February on the island, and here her friend was, lost in it in the middle of the night.

As they neared the edge of the academy village, and approached the ruins of Robert the Bruce’s castle, they continued calling out to Fern. Now Krystelle was starting to get worried. There was a lot of rocks out this way, and a lot of steep hills down into the water. What if she fell? What if she really hurt herself?

“Hey!”

Dr. Watkins flashed his light forward. They both caught a glimpse of faded white and a flash of shining black hair, running towards them.

“Ms. Mantovani!”

Hastily, Dr. Watkins hobbled over the rocks and sludge, leaning on his cane the whole way, until he reached Fern in the middle. She was half-covered in mud, her clothes were all soaked through, and she was barefoot, but she was alright.

“You mustn’t ever do that again, young lady,” said Watkins,“I can’t imagine what hardship you must be going through right now, but you could have really hurt yourself out here, or worse.”

“I know, Professor,” said Fern, glumly “And I’m sorry.”

Krystelle smiled a little, and walked over to them.

“Hey,” said Krystelle, “What was that for? We were—like—really worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, Krissie,” said Fern, hanging her head, “I freaked out. It’s just... if you only knew... but it’s ok. The pretty goat ladies; they helped a lot.”

“Pretty what?”

“Oh!” Fern covered her mouth, looking up at Watkins, who was now looking both cross and surprised as he bit his lip under his moustache.

“Professor?” said Krystelle, puzzled.

“It’s nothing,” said Fern, quickly, “Let’s just get back home.”

And so the three of them, huddled under the large black umbrella, doubled back to the Academy, as Krystelle occasionally looked back at the old castle, unable to shake the sudden feeling that they were all being watched.

***

THREE YEARS LATER 

“Give up!” Krystelle demanded, “We’ve got you surrounded, dark one! It’s over for you and your evil master!” She called out over the log which was her cover, Wizard Cracker firmly in hand

“Never!” replied Dora. She spoke defiantly, raising her own Wizard Cracker to the sky from atop the treehouse.

The famous Auror-Detective Krystelle Gandy had been hot on the trail of one of You-Know-Who’s last loyal Death Eaters; Dirty Dora the Dangerous. Finally, she’d tracked her down to her secret lair; the Tower of Grawshook. This was their final showdown. After all her adventures, her legacy would be decided here and now. Dirty Dora Flamel was coming with her, either in chains or in a body bag.

Just then, small red sparks shot up from behind every bush in the garden.

“What was that?”asked Krystelle, forcefully.

“Haha, there goes your backup, Auror-Detective!” said Dora,“My goblin minions have made short work of them. It’s just you and me now, babe.”

“You fiend!” said Krystelle, shaking her fist, “Their deaths will be avenged!”

Wasting no more time, the famous Krystelle Gandy hopped over the log and made a beeline straight for the treehouse.

  
“Take this, goody goody!" 

Dirty Dora peeked her head out the window and popped her Cracker down at the young heroine, who zig-zagged and rolled forward just in time to avoid the blast of confettii and glitter. At last she was at the trunk of the tree, and the ladder to the Tower of Grawshook.

“Oh yeah?” said Dirty Dora, laughing from above, “Well let’s see how you like this. Attack, my goblin minions!”

The infamous Death Eater then took a barrel from the side and dumped it down. A collection of several small stuffed goblin dolls sunk their claws into the Auror-Detective’s sundress, and giving high-pitched squeaks as they meekly kicked and headbutted her with their cottony forms.

“Ack!” yelled Krystelle, trying not to laugh as the little things tickled her, “Back, servants of You-Know-Who! Back!”

After quickly dusting the dolls off of her, Krystelle pulled another Cracker from her dress front pocket, and continued upward.

When at last she found herself inside the fiend’s layer, she held her Cracker forward with a flourish, and was confused momentarily when she found no one there. All she did find was a small stack of white cards in the dead center of the small wooden room. Krystelle picked up the stack, and turned it over.

_3_

Krystelle threw the card on the ground.

_2_

Krystelle apprehensively turned to the next card, discarding the old one again.

_1_

Finally, she got to the last card.

_Boom_

At once, the paper erupted in tiny sparks, the hot specks stinging Krystelle’s bare feet, and some even shooting up her dress. Outside, over the sound of firecrackers, she heard someone dying of laughter on the lawn.

Shaking off the shock of it all, Krystelle ran straight back to the window, and saw Dora rolling back and forth on the grass, clutching her sides as she pointed and laughed.

“Once again, evil— hahaha— has triumphed! Thanks—hehe—to Dirty Dora!”

“Oh yeah?”

Krystelle immediately shot back down the ladder, ran to Dora, and dog-piled onto her.

“Haha, ow, hey!”

“Evil will never win so long as Auror-Detective Gandy is around!”

“Nuh-huh, you’re dead, I just killed you!”

“No, no I’m not!”

They kept wrestling, tickling, and laughing like that, not knowing that both their fathers were looking on them from the sliding glass door of the Gandy home, softly giggling at their children’s play.

After a mere few minutes, both girls finally lost their breath, and collapsed on their backs, side by side, looking up at the clear summer sky.

“Seriously, though,” said Krystelle, “You did get me good.”

“I know, right?”

“Only fair I guess. I fell for my own trick. But how did you get out of the treehouse so fast?”

“I set up another ladder in the back-window before you woke up this morning.”

Krystelle laughed.

“Wow! You planned that far ahead?”

“Of course. Dirty Dora hasn’t avoided capture this long for nothing!” she poked Krystelle’s side playfully.

They sat in silence for a while like that, hand in hand in the grass, looking up at the clouds, silently wondering to themselves what they looked like.

Krystelle still couldn’t believe it was really almost over. In a month or so, she and Dora were going to go off to two separate schools; she to Rathlin Academy, and Dora to bloody Hogwarts, the most famous school for witchcraft in all of Europe! No more would they be limited to kid magic like wizard crackers or toys. Their parents were going to buy them their own wands, so they could learn to do real, grown-up magic.

She should have been elated, and she supposed she was, but in that moment, with her best friend close beside her, she could only think about being sent off to the island all alone, for the first time. It was a lonely, blue feeling.

“Hey, Dora?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna really miss you.”

“Awww,” Dora rolled over and cuddled into Krystelle’s shoulder, “I’m gonna miss you too, Krissie. It won’t be so bad, though. Daddy’ll make sure we don’t fall out of touch! He’s always bugging me to write people more.”

“I know, it’s just...I spend so much time on that bloody island. And this time Dad says I can stay for summer if I end up wanting to. So, it could be almost a year before we see each other again.”

“Yeah…” Dora snuggled into her friend more, “Oh well,. It’s still like a month off, right? We still have to go to Diagon Alley and get our stuff. Oh my gosh, we’re gonna get our wands together! Our first wands! That’s so mad!”

Krystelle smiled and nodded.

“Yeah….”

And again, the two young girls lay there with each other in silence, basking in the others company, until Daddy and Mr. Flamel called them in for lunch 

 

***

 

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, another much more severe game of cat and mouse was underway, as it had been for the past year. A woman, tall and fit, with her blonde hair braided into two ponytails, sat at her desk by the light of several dozen candles, looking to the world like a woman on a mission, as her strong blue eyes scanned the case files before her over and over.

On the wall in front of her, a collage of newspaper clippings, both wizarding and Muggle, as well as at least a hundred photographs and documents, were pinned and connected to each other with lengths of red string. At the center of the myriad of evidence, was a blurred black-and-white photo of a silhouetted figure disappearing into a panicked crowd.

This was the photo that had made Janna personally insist on taking this case up, the picture of the man who’d taken over her life in more ways than one. It had been taken at JFK airport, just after the first attack, but an overly-curious young shutterbug. On the photo, a sticky note read:

_The Man in White_

It had all started last year in New York City, with the attack on Juliet Cruisers airline. February 14th, 1990. On the day in question, one of the walkways from the plane to the terminal at JFK airport, was bombed through ostensibly Muggle means. Three prominent wizarding figures, including Fleur Eloise, the French ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards, died in the attack, and several more were wounded.

 

_The New York Phantom_

**FOREIGN NATIONALS SLAIN IN AIRPORT BOMBING  
MUGGLE FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED**

 

At first the Muggle police sought to blame some terrorist organization for the crime. Upon closer inspection, however, it became evident that this was a witch or wizard who did it, and the Muggle Relations Division of the US Auror Office took over.

The bomb in question was indeed made from Muggle explosives, but the trigger was magical. A recreation of the scene after the fact also found a sizable portion of the underside of the walkway itself was missing. This seemed to suggest the explosives, while Muggle in nature, were transfigured out of a portion of the walkway. The evidence was building more and more that it was magical, not Muggle foul play to blame.

Janna and her partner, Evan Miller, were both assigned to the case. She kept copies of his notes safe and of course investigated alongside him. For a while the investigation went nowhere. They kept finding leads, and every lead got them only to one dead end after another. However, that changed last April. The _modus operandi_ had been the same, Muggle explosives set off by magical means, and a survivor had witnessed the Man in White fleeing the scene.

 

**PROMINENT WIZARDING HUB ATTACKED  
MUGGLES TO BLAME? **

_April 1, 1991_

 

The attack had been on a place known simply as the Outpost, a combination post office and transport hub situated in North Dakota. Like much of the heartland, the wizarding populace of the state was very much isolated from the rest of the nation, much less the world. They thought it was just some prank when it first when dark, but when magical law enforcement arrived on the scene, to see the building engulfed in flames, they quickly discovered that was not the case. This Outpost was a keystone of wizarding society for most of the state, and someone blew it to hell, sending the whole place into a chaotic dumpster fire; no post, no Floo connection, no new Apparation licenses, and worst of all, no contact with the MACUSA.

Four days after taking the case…Evan Miller disappeared. He just didn’t show up for work that morning. Janna ran to his house worried, only to find it a wreck, and him nowhere to be found. Janna was inconsolable for a week before she was able to get back to work. He only agreed to take the case because she’d begged him to. What’s more, she loved Evan; they both came from Finland on the same boat, and solved dozens of cases together. He was like a little brother to her.

  
Since then, Janna had been working triple time, investigating JFK, the Outpost, _and_ Evan’s disappearance. She reckoned she’d slept about twelve hours in the past four days alone. Coffee and potions alone kept her head upright, much less awake, and her deterioration had not gone unnoticed. The captain was insisting she take on another partner to take up night duty for her. Janna looked up at the lock. Eight o’clock PM. They were due here any minute. 

Just then there was a knock at her door. It was gentle, yet Janna was so engrossed in her study that she was startled for a moment.

“Come in,” the Auror called. There was a noticeable hint of a Scandinavian accent to her voice.

The door opened, and inside was her captain, Colin Nathan, with a girl no older than 18 in tow. The girl had short black hair and thick black-rimmed glasses, but a handsome face, by all accounts.

“Lieutenant Janna Cambridge,” said Captain Nathan,, “May I introduce Sergeant Mary Visage? Sergeant Visage, Lieutenant Cambridge.”

“Ah, yes,” said Janna, standing to greet her, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear.”

“Now I meant what I said before,” said the Captain, sternly, “She’ll be taking over this case at night, so give her a quick brief and get yourself _home_ for God sakes.”

“Aye, captain,” said Janna, begrudgingly

“Alrighty then,” said Nathan, smiling in relief, “Miss, I leave you in the lieutenant’s good care. Good luck.”

He then shook the girl’s hand, and took his leave. Apprehensively, the young Mary Visage took a deep breath, then stood tall, wearing a smile of sudden confidence.

“Have a seat,” said Janna.

“Thanks.”

She plopped down on the nearby office chair, and rolled forward towards the desk.

“Gosh,” gasped Mary, “this case is only a year old?”

“I’ve been working _very_ hard on it.”

“I can believe it. Sorry to hear about Sergeant Miller by the way. All the guys down at the academy said he was—is, sorry, a great guy.”

“Thank you,” said Janna. She appreciated the gesture. It was more than some of the boys down here were willing to give.

“Right,” said the young Auror, smiling, “So anything I should know before I get started?”

“Let’s see...they said you’re a pureblood. Do you know much about Juliet Cruisers?”

“Not really. I was still finishing training then, and I sort of phased out whenever Muggle stuff came up. Airplanes? Man, what do those guys think they’re doing?”

“Well that’s a mindset I hope you’ve broken away from. This _is_ ‘Muggle Relations’ after all.”

“Right, of course I have.”

“Well, Juliet Cruisers is essentially a specialized airline (that’s what they call an airplane company), which introduces wizarding people to the Muggle world, for those who for one reason or another want or have to live in it. On the way they give them brief orientations and tutorials and the like.”

“Ahhh ok, sounds simple enough. Crazy, but simple. Anything you can tell me about the suspect? This Man in White?”

“Well we discovered that this MO is not new, nor was the appearance of this man. He’s been sighted at similar assassinations and war atrocities all across the wizarding world. Muggle explosives against wizarding targets. His identity, unknown; in the international auror community, he’s known only as ‘The Man in White’.”

“Any other questions? Everything you need is right here. It’s all labeled and dated, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding your way around it.”

“One last question. Any leads as to his motivation?”

“Not much. The international attacks are completely erratic, often contradictory. He’ll kill a politician that’s for one thing, only to bomb the office of that politician’s competition. Here in the states, however, there does seem to be one common thread to the two attacks.”

“What’s that?”

“First, all three of the victims at JFK were vocal supporters of President Shensuken’s new civil rights bill. Second, North Dakota is mostly Libertarian, strongly Secessionist even. However, that’s only in the more populated areas. The more rural areas, those with close regular contact with Native American reservations, are mostly Progressive. These are also the areas who depended on the Outpost the most.”

“Ergo, there are probably more in those areas who support the president than oppose him.”

“Precisely.”

“So the attacks have been politically motivated?”

“It’s possible. At any rate it’s all we’ve got.”

“Right. Well, thanks Lieutenant. I think I can take it from here. You go on ahead home.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll see you in the morning…”

 

***

 

 

“Hey Dad, Mom’s home!”

Holly Cambridge darted from her place at the dinner table, leaving a small whirlwind of homework in her wake, as she ran headlong into Mom's waiting arms at the door. She heard Dad laughing softly behind her.

“Hey, girl,” he said softly, over his newspaper, “Saved you a plate for dinner, it’s in the icebox”

“Thank you, love,” said Mom, still holding Holly tight. 

“New partner finally come today?" asked Holly, "You haven’t come home this early in months.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. She’s a nice girl, from what I could see. It’ll definitely help having another pair of eyes in the office. How about you, cub? How was your day?”

“Fantastic!” replied Holly, beaming “We won another game! You know what that means, right?”

“The Firebrands are making it to regionals?”

“Yeah!” said Holly, suddenly jumping in place, “They start next week, Friday! And if we win two of those, we make it to the Junior Cup! I know it's bad times right now over at work, but do you think you could  _please_ come, Mom? Just this once?”

“Well...I did say I have a new partner, right? Perhaps I could—”

“Thank you thank you thank you!”

Holly hugged her Mom tighter. She couldn’t remember the last time Mom had made it to one of her games, even though she always asked her about it, made sure she was doing well.

Holly had been playing soccer since was old enough to walk, but she only started training in the Texas Junior Cup when she turned eight. Mom took her to camp in Arizona for two summers, then this summer she had made it onto the Dallas Firebrands as a midfielder. Coach loved her; she had never let the ball get past her once since joining the team.

It was such a shame that Mom never got to see it, though. The Junior Cup had only been on for a month when Mom's partner disappeared. Holly had offered to help about a hundred times by now, but Mom said no.

“Now, enough of that,” said Mom (though she still smiled), “Is your homework done?”

“Mostly,” said Holly, nodding, “I finished History, Swedish, and Lilith helped with Potions. I just need to finish with Science. Dad and I are going through the chapter on atoms.”

“Goodness, really?”

"Yeah, it's cool, but nothing as cool as the magic stuff. I don't  _have_ to keep up these Muggle studies, do I? I'm in seventh grade, shouldn't I be getting ready for high school by now?" 

“Ahhhh, well...it’s funny you ask—”

A knock from behind her interrupted them.

“Oh, that’ll be him then?” Dad asked.

“It must be!” said Mom, “Speak of the devil, huh?”

She turned back around. Holly was confused for a second. Who could be visiting now? It was almost ten o'clock. 

“Janna!” a man’s voice said, cheerfully.

“Sherrod,” replied Mom, just as happy, "It's been too long!" 

She hugged the man, and then let him in. He was tall and thin, with short, uncombed black hair with some stubble on his face, a black suit, and a grey handkerchief around his neck.

“Holly,” said Mom, “This is Professor Howe. He’s a teacher, well, more like a principal. He’s the headmaster of a school in Northern Ireland.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you, miss."   
  
Professor Howe bowed, and offered her his hand, which she politely shook.

“Alright, Xavier?” asked Professor Howe, waving at Dad, “I’ve not seen you since, how long? Even longer than ol’ Janna here. Word is you’re a military man now?”

“Hah, yes and no,” said Dad, looking shy, “I work for IWDS, that’s—”

“The International Weapons Development and Sanctions Board,” the professor interrupted Dad, “I am quite familiar with them. So research and development, then? Certainly a splendid use of your Ph.D, considering. I perceive that the company sent you to Fort Hood to advise the research project there. So it’s only incidentally that you’re working for the Muggle American army. Am I correct?”

“Um… yeah, exactly. How did you know? Actually... how’d you know  _any_  of that?”

“It’s what he does, love,” said Mom, shrugging, “Don’t get him started on how he figured it out, you’ll not hear the end of it for a while yet.”

“Ahh, your wife knows me too well. But enough chatter. I believe we have business with your daughter, no?”

“Me?” said Holly, startled. 

Professor Howe smiled.   
  
"Shall we move this conversation into the den? I believe Miss Holly will want to be sitting down for this.”

“Sure,” replied Dad, nodding, “Come along, love, we’ll finish your chemistry in just a bit. I reckon you’re gonna like what Professor Howe has to say.”

The four of them all made their way from the entry hall and dining room, left through the kitchen to the spacious family living room. Professor Howe took a seat on the leather chair, while Holly and her parents sat opposite him on the couch. Holly felt curiously at ease with the professor, as he crossed his legs and sat in the chair as comfortably as if it had always been his favorite. He had a silly look in his eye, yet his face was mostly serious. Something about the professor just made her feel safer somehow.

“Well now, Miss Holly,” said Professor Howe, “As I understand it, you’ve been playing football for a while now?”

Holly nodded enthusiastically.

Professor Howe laughed.   
  
“It definitely sounds like you’ve quite a career under your belt. I’m curious, how would you like to advance in this even further?”

“What do you mean?" said Holly, "The National Youth Championship Series? Gosh, that would be neat! We’d have to win the cup first though, to move onto nationals.”

“Indeed so. However, I was thinking a bit...higher up than any youth organization. Oh the youth league has done well right by you, as far as I can see, but how would you like to play in the big leagues? I’m talking, dear Holly, about FIFA.”

“FIFA?” gasped Holly, “But I’m only twelve!" 

“Perhaps for now. However, FIFA has been known to accept players out of junior leagues as young as teenagers.”

“Ah, he’s right, love,” said Mom, “They’re letting them in younger and younger all the time. I hear they’re looking at this one lass in Australia for their own national team, she’s not even fourteen yet.”   

“And as competitive as you are in the Junior Cup, you’re prime scouting material if I ever saw it. And it just so happens that a brand new women’s club has just been founded across the water. The Nottingham Forest LFC.”

“Ohhh, I’ve heard of that! Mrs. Weston, Mom's friend, she’s a talent scout for Team Nottingham! Wait…have you been planning this?”

Mom looked away, blushing a bit.

“Perhaps,” she said with a giggle.

"Ahhh," Dad cut in, "Excuse me? Janna? Why is this the first I've been hearing about this?"   
  
Mom looked to him, blankly.   
  
"What do you mean? She's always told you she wants to play professionally."   
  
" _Every_ kid athlete says they want that at their age. This isn't something we should just jump into without--"   
  
"I  _do_ want it!" said Holly, a little indignant, "Dad, I promise you I really do."   
  
Dad scrunched his face, and Professor Howe cleared his throat before carrying on. 

“Hence why I am here, my dear,” the Professor said  “In a couple years or so, you’ll already qualify for FIFA membership, but that still leaves some minor rules with Nottingham. It’s in their charter that you must have been a resident of the United Kingdom for at least six months prior to trying out.”

“Awww,” said Holly, “But I haven’t been back to Britain since I was five. So where does that leave me?”

“I am glad you asked!”   

Professor Howe reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an envelope, then handing it to Holly. The envelope was addressed to her, and on the back there was a symbol: a lion in the middle of a circled belt, pressed on an orange wax seal. She ripped it open, and pulled out a letter.

_Dearest Holly Cambridge,_

_You are cordially invited to embark on an adventure one part spiritual and one part magical, in your pursuit of an educated mind; to get to know the arts as the most powerful force in human life; to join a tradition of students and educators stretching back hundreds of years, on one of the most ancient and storied of the British Isles. Without further ado, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Rathlin Junior Academy of Arts And Magic._

Holly leapt out of her seat.

“Rathlin?!” she all but screamed, “ _The_ Rathlin Academy? Oh...but this is dated for _next_ school year.”

“That’s right, cub,” said Mom, smiling, “I'm arranging for you to go to a regular school stateside, just so you can get used to a proper school. Then you finish up your contract with the Firebrands next summer, go to Rathlin the school year after this one, then the summer after next, you can try out for Team Nottingham!”

“I can?!”

“And, hehe, not to make any promises, but well... Terri, Mrs. Weston I mean, she really loves how you play.”

Holly grabbed both of her parents by the necks in as tight a hug as her little arms could muster, as Dad requested in vain for her to calm down.

“Thank you, oh my god t _hank you!_  You’re the best parents in the world!”

“Well don’t thank us,” said Mom humbly, “It was all Professor Howe’s idea.”

"Yes,  _certainly_ don't thank us," said Dad, grumbling. 

“Indeed,” said Professor Howe, “Rathlin has had its eyes on you for a while, Miss Holly. And I just figured you had about had it with homeschool.”

"So sure," said Dad, "Take our only daughter off to the other side of the world so she can join a bloody--"   
  
"Xavier!" hissed Mom, "That's  _enough_. Don't you  _dare_ ruin this for her."   
  
Dad crossed his arms and just kept grumbling under his mustache.   
  
"What do I know? I'm just her bloody father is all..." 

Holly ignored him. Dad could be a bit of a crybaby sometimes, and he worried too much, but he  _did_ know this is what she always wanted. He would respect that eventually. She then turned around, sped around the coffee table, and stopped just short of jumping in his lap to hug him. Instead, she took a deep breath, and merely took his hand in her own and shook it furiously.

“Thank you Professor Howe, I won’t let you down!”

***

 

Several Apparations and a wizarding boat ride across the Atlantic later, Professor Sherrod Howe had finally returned home, to his humble cottage in the Academy village by Bruce’s castle. With his bag firmly in hand, and a great deal of stress built up in his back, aching for a hot bath, he swaggered on through the front door, to the elated holler of his wards, welcoming him home.

Of course, little Colm was the first to reach him, and the loudest in noticing him. Sherrod didn’t know what he just broke or knocked over as Colm ran to give him a hug, and he didn’t quite care. Returning home was always a joy for him.

“Oi Finn!” the lad all but shrieked, “Finn! Finnbar! Finn! He’s home! Oi wanker, he’s home! You hear, stupid? Sherrod’s back!”

Sherrod cringed at Colm’s choice of words, even if he knew the lad couldn’t help himself. He was much more relived as he saw Colm’s big brother turn round the corner to the door, considerably slower and calmer. At his side was a girl of the same age, slightly shorter. She’d stayed on the island enough as a village counselor that Sherrod recognized her immediately as Finn’s best friend, Portia Figg.

“Ahhh, there he is!” Colm said, separating from Sherrod and crossing his arms, “With Fig Tree Girl, both as fat and ugly as ever. EEEEEK! ‘I’m going slightly mad! I’m going slightly mad! It finally HAAAAA-pened.’ EEEK!”

In a flash, Colm rushed on all fours up the stairs, turned right, smacked his head with a hard thud on the railing, and continued into his room unperturbed.

“If he persists like that, you absolutely have my permission to hit him,” Sherrod assured.

“Ahhh, I’ll hold you to that, sir,” replied Finn, cocking his eyebrow, “Have a nice trip, Mr. Howe?”

“Indeed so, Mr. Negus,” said Sherrod with a knowing wink, “Sorry about the boy’s behavior, Miss Figg. I assure you I don’t condone that.”

Portia shrugged.

“S’allright, professor,” Portia assured, “I’m a big girl, I can take it. I just hate how he treats Finn.”

“Aw, my knight in shining armor,” teased Finn, nudging her side, “Don’t worry yourself, mate. That’s just his annoying as feck way of saying he loves us…although I _will_ hit him for it, Howe, don’t worry.”

Sherrod laughed.

“I just got to hope he grows out of those mental episodes,” Finn said, shaking his head, “Else he’ll have a go with the wrong fellow someday, someone who won’t go so easy on him.”

“My worries exactly, sadly,” Sherrod agreed.

“Anyway,” said Finn, “You must be exhausted, eh? We’ll go ahead and let you rest upstairs.”

“Yeah, professor,” said Miss Portia, “We got dinner all ready for ourselves earlier. You want us to bring you something up?”

“Thank you kindly, sir, and you madam” Sherrod tipped his hat, “I already ate as well, but thanks for the offer. And in all seriously, don’t pay your brother any mind on my account. That’s what sound-proof charms are for, eh?”

Sherrod smiled, bid them adieu, and continued up the stairs. Just before turning left to get to his own bedroom, Colm popped out of the broom closet, holding a toilet paper roll like a microphone.

“Is this the reeeeeal life, Sherrod? Or is this just faaaaantasy? Caught in a laaaandslide, no escape from reaaaaaality?”

“All of the above, matey,” Sherrod chuckled, rolled his eyes, and moved past him.

 _At least he has good taste_.

Wasting no more time, he entered his quarters, locked the door behind him, charmed the room to keep sound both in and out, removed his coat and ascot, and sunk into his armchair by the fireplace.

He knew he was taking a risk, bringing the Cambridge girl here. A risk too few people knew about. Rathlin was no Hogwarts, and Sherrod was certainly no Albus Dumbledore. He knew he couldn’t keep her as safe on the island as the castle, but this was a matter both Sherrod and Janna had agreed was not Albus’ business, and so left him out of it for now.

 _Albus may be the most powerful wizard of the age_ , thought Sherrod, _But this…._

“ _Accio_ prophecy,” Sherrod incanted with a wave of his wand.

In a flash the rubbish on his desk across the room ruffled, and a small blue-dyed scroll flew through the air, into Sherrod’s hand. The scroll was a copy of the report Sherrod had given to the Department of Mysteries about four years ago, concerning the vision of a very close acquaintance of his. Sherrod found it helped to read such things over again, not to remember them, but merely to contemplate them.

 _Not everyone has the luxury of a Pensieve_ , Sherrod thought, smirking.

Sherrod then unrolled the scroll wearily, and read through it for what had to’ve been the thousandth time.

 

_The Man in White will sunder Merlin’s Field, after starting the fire in the north._

_A young protégé, a motherless daughter of two nations, is to make her first debut there, as her guardian, the Man in White’s hunter, looks on helplessly. The protégé will be both a soldier and a victim of two wars to come; one against brothers, and one against a foe who has made himself nameless. The Man in White will aid in his unnatural return._

_Relationships will fray and bend, while new alliances are forged which will last till the next age._

_Progress will be halted as blood flows, on both sides of the sea, then flourish as the corpses grow cold._

_Hope can be salvaged, but not before pagans are once again driven from Salem._

 

As Sherrod reread the words over and over again, he outstretched both hands. In each, a violin and bow materialized. Relishing their familiar texture and smell, he propped the violin under his chin, and began to strum a tune which Sherrod fancied as both haunting and comforting, a tune Sherrod had written himself long ago. As he played, he allowed himself to relax, and become lost in his endless thoughts and calculations.

 It truly was good to be back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fern Mandovani, Krystelle Gandy, and Portia Figg are owned by littlebityamelie  
> Dora Flamel, Finn and Colm Negus are owned by the-mind-of-kleinnak  
> Janna, Holly, and Xavier Cambridge are owned by EH-Indigo  
> Sherrod Howe and Jefferson Watkins are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	2. The Rathlin Academy Ferry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Potterverse setting is owned by JK Rowling

 

“ _I'm sailing away_

_Set an open course for the virgin sea  
I've got to be free _

_Free to face the life that's ahead of me_  
On board I'm the captain so climb aboard  
We'll search for tomorrow on every shore  
And I'll try oh Lord I'll try 

_To carry on”_

_-_ Come Sail Away, Styx, 1977

 

Krystelle felt like Dora should be crying right now. She looked like she was just about to, and Krystelle certainly felt _sad_ enough to cry herself, but the tears wouldn’t come.. Krystelle always knew Dora had some trouble expressing herself. Still, for some reason, she couldn’t help but feel low that Dora wasn’t crying right now, when this could be the last time they saw each other in a long time. She also felt sore guilty for even thinking that.

 _You_ know _she loves you, stupid,_ she though, wincing, _Why is it so important that she say it out loud? Or fall over sobbing over you? Especially if_ you _won’t..._

As Mr. Flamel’s limo pulled up in front of the Gandy house, Krystelle just pulled Dora as close and as hard as she could.

“Have a good time at Rathlin,” said Dora, “Send me a souvenir.”

Krystelle giggled softly.

“Like what?” she said.

“Aw, you know, I’m sure they have free soap and towels in the common rooms. ‘Course I’d settle for your drawings. Maybe even a painting, then I can see if Daddy can convince Dumbledore into hanging it in Hogwarts.”

“Heh, maybe.”

Dora squeezed her, and Krystelle felt her face grow hot, butterflies filling her tummy.

“Love ya, Krissie.”

That did it. Nothing could have made Krystelle happier than those two simple words coming from Dora’s mouth. Krystelle’s face and throat tightened as tears began to well in her eyes. She wanted so bad to say “love ya” back, after feeling so dejected before, but she just couldn’t find the words, couldn’t force them out of her mouth. All she could do was steal a quick kiss on Dora’s cheek.

“...yeah,” she said, smiling through her tears, “And yeah, I’ll see about drawing you a sketch, every day if I have time. I’ll get these ones to move, maybe even talk. It’ll be wicked!”

“Too right it will,” said Dora, giggling.

“And...you have a good time too. Don’t let the other Slytherins push you around.”

Dora laughed.

“What,” she said, “You just assume they’ll put me in Slytherin?”

“Come on, babe. Everyone _knows_ it’s what you want. What _Hufflepuff_ would get up at five in the morning and hang a second ladder from a tree-house just to win a game?”

Dora laughed, then looked puzzlingly at the ground for a moment.

“...yeeeah, you’re right,” said Dora, shrugging, “What can I say? Dirty Dora must be rubbing off on me, right? I’ll just be oozing _so_ much evil they’ll have no choice but to stick me in Slytherin.”

  
“Oh totally. They’re gonna have to—”

“Miss Dora, Miss Dora!” Dora’s elf Snickers shouted from inside the car, “We really must be going, mademoiselle, if we’re to make it to the station in time!”

“‘Ee ez right, Dora, darling,” said Mr. Flamel. He sounded guilty as he held her shoulder.

“Right, yeah,” replied Dora, drearily. She hugged Krystelle one last time.

“See you around, Krissie. Don’t forget, one drawing a day!”

“You got it,” said Krystelle, then hugged her back.

  
With that, Dora parted, and hopped in as the limo door opened on its own. When it closed, and Dora’s father hopped in the driver’s seat, Dora pressed her hand to the glass window, and looked out. The two girls waved each other goodbye until the limo turned the corner, out of sight.

“Right, love,” said Dad from behind her, “Best get back inside and pack up your own cart, eh?”

 

***

 

Krystelle coughed as she and her parents were forced from the other end of the fireplace. She _hated_ traveling by Floo Powder, and couldn’t wait to get to school so she could finally learn how to fly.

“There now,” said Dad, dusting her off, “Not so bad, eh?”

“Yes so bad,” replied Krystelle, frowning.

“Aw, you get used to it, baby. Just got to keep your mouth closed next time. Trust me, if you’re get to be in my line of work, you’ll have to get used to it.”

They walked along the hallway of fireplaces out into the wharf, where the crowd was ever-growing down at the docks. Krystelle looked behind as they went. This time the Floo station was bewitched to looking like a Burger King. Last year it had been a VCR repair store.

“Well,” said Krystelle, giggling, “Who said I was gonna _be_ in your line of work? I’m gonna be an artist, remember?”

“Oh right!” Dad replied, slapping his forehead, “Silly me.”

“Now come on, Michaelangelo,” Mum insisted, “The ferry will be here any minute.”

Krystelle followed along, but promptly _ahem_ ’ed.

“Sorry, _Michaelangelo_? That pushover? Nuh uh, Mum, I’m Artemisia.”

“Who?”

“Artemisia Gentileschi, remember?”

Both her parents looked at her blankly.

“The first woman ever accepted into the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence? Gah, don’t you pay attention to who your own daughter’s heroes are?”

“Er, I just tend to fade out and think of quidditch once you get started on the Renaissance and such,” said Dad, guiltily, “I try, it’s just all those big Italian words and all.”

“Dad, you speak three different languages besides English.”

“And Italian is _not_ one of them.”

He laughed, and Krystelle couldn’t help but laugh back.

“My mistake, darling,” said Mum, “Do send me a list when you can, then you can give me an exam on Christmas.”

“Deal!” said Krystelle, looking victorious.

“Now you got your spending coin tucked all safe, darling?” asked Dad.

“Of course, Daddy,” replied Krystelle.

“Now remember to try and keep to the budget I wrote out for you. I don’t want you visiting this Christmas with a bunch of silly shite stuffing your bag.”

“Oi Charlie, watch your language!” said Mum, crossly.

“Ah, sorry luv, just makin’ small talk.”

“Uh uh,” Mum shook her head, and gestured for Dad to come closer with her finger.

He leaned in, and she whispered something in his ear.

“Oh, dear me! ” said Dad. He bowed his head, trying to hide a smile.

“Well, maybe I’ll be gracious,” replied Mum, smiling slyly, “Just try and—” she shot a look at Krystelle, like she almost forgot she was there, then went back to whispering to Dad, who turned bright red, and started giggling like a moron.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Good boy,” said Mum, then leaned in, stealing a quick kiss from him.

Krystelle gagged. She never understood her parents when they got like this.

“Oi, get a room you two, there are children here!”

Her parents both laughed, Dad growing redder. Krystelle didn’t really know what any of that meant, but she’d heard Mrs. Flamel say it to them at a dinner party once when they were getting all weird. Whatever it meant, it seemed to resonate with them.

Krystelle shrugged at the thought. She supposed it was better to have them be gross and making googoo eyes at each other all the time than fighting all the time, like grandma and grandpa. If only she could figure out why it was that Dad liked being told what to do so much.

“So what classes will you be taking?” asked Mum.

“Dunno,”replied Krystelle, “The school picks for you when you’re going into Junior Academy. Give us an idea of what the Academy proper will be like _next_ year.”

“Oh, but you’ve been going there already for primary school. Don’t you know already?”

“They only teach us boring Muggle stuff in primary. Math, reading, writing. And I heard even when you get there with a wand, you can’t use magic to clean your dorm. It sucks.”

“Oh pish posh. Krissie, you do chores at home with no magic all the time.”

“Yeah but at Hogwarts they got house elves to do all that stuff!”

“Well it’s cutting it close,” said Mum, tapping her chin, “But if you’d rather go to Hogwarts and give Rathlin’s fine art program a miss, I think your father could pull a few strings and—”

‘No no no, I’m fine, I’m good, I’m cool.”

Mum giggled, and tussled her hair lovingly, “Spoiled little brat.”

“Oh you know you love me.”

  
“We both do.”

  
She planted a kiss on Krystelle’s forehead. She cringed, but couldn’t help but kinda liking it.

“Ah, look ladies,” said Dad, “Here it comes!”

Sure enough, the crowd had begun cheering as a glint of white was coming into focus headed right this way, slowly eclipsing the thin line of Rathlin Island visible just where the sky met the water.

The ferry was huge, with a front tip at least a hundred feet high, white fiberglass with a wooden carved mermaid attached to it. She had a green tail and orange seashells on her chest.

 _How do they get those to stay on?_ Krystelle wondered, _And why do mermaids need boobies anyway? Do mermaids breastfeed? They’re fish! Makes no sense. Maybe they’ll teach us in school._

As the ferry turned, she saw Robert the Bruce’s lion painted on the side, with a green belt around it in a circle, and the school’s motto in cursive black letters. It was some Latin phrase Krystelle never paid much attention to.

Finally, the ferry made port, a small bridge being lowered out of the much smaller hind-end of the bridge. When the bridge made contact with the dock, a red carpet rolled out from nowhere, to greet all the eager students, more than ready to get aboard. No double the Muggle parents thought they put it on a machine or something to make it roll out. If they were still here, it meant their kids were keeping the truth a secret.

“Well...this is it,” said Krystelle, suddenly feeling sad again.

She let go of her cart for a second, turned around and looked up at her Mum and Dad. They could be goofy and mushy sometimes, but she did love them a lot. This part, saying goodbye for the whole school term, was always the hardest. She’d learned from not only grandma and grandpa, but especially Fern, to not take her parents for granted.

Daddy worked hard on Mr. Flamel’s board of directors, and was even next in line to be VP, but whenever he had to choose between work and his family, he always chose family. He didn’t drink or party, and he didn’t ever scream or lose his temper at her like grandpa did whenever she misbehaved. He always took time to talk her through things, even if she was being a brat. He didn’t believe in “tough love” or any of that hokum. Just love.

For some reason, this made her think of Fern again, and her raggy, rotten hag mother.

Krystelle’s own mother was farthest from her as she could imagine. She was tough and firm, never taking anyone’s lumps, and never putting up with Krystelle when she wasn’t minding her. But at the same time, Mum always treated Krystelle like she was a person she was trying to help succeed, not a project or a burden, someone that she _owed_ respect to no matter what. When Fern got taken away to “Paris”, Fern wrote to Krystelle one last letter, saying it would be her last; that her mum didn’t want her to be reminded of her “old life” and to do as she said; that she’s her mother, and she deserves her respect.

Krystelle remembered those years ago when she showed the letter to Mum, and she remembered what Mum had told her.

  
“Krissie...remember something. If _anyone_ treats you as less than human, they do not deserve your respect, no matter who they are. ‘She’s my mother and she deserves my respect? She feeds me, clothes me, so I owe her this.’ What kind of mindset is that to teach a little girl? To make her feel in debt just for existing? She’s the one who got herself pregnant! Krissie, she’s wrong. Being a family means being a team. We take care of you, body _and_ mind, because we love you, full stop.”

Then they hugged and Krystelle said,   
  
“ _I_ respect you, Mummy, no matter what. I know I don’t always show it but...”

“I know, darling. I work hard to deserve that. True love is unconditional, but respect has to be _earned_. Remember that too.”

Suddenly Krystelle came back to the present, as she started crying again. Both her parents knelt down and embraced her, Dad starting to sniffle a little himself.

“I love you guys,” said Krystelle, smiling, “I’ll miss you so much.”

“I love you too, darling” said Mum.

“Me too, Krissie-girl,” said Dad, “Make sure to make lots of friends this term, and write us every day, ok baby?”

“Well let’s not get carried away,” Krystelle smirked.

They all chuckled a little at that.

“I’ll write as often as I can, Papa,” said Krystelle.

“Good…” he said. He then got up, and wiped his eyes.

“Well, off you go, love. We’ll miss you.”

“You too!”

With that, she took her cart in one hand, pulled her ticket out of her jacket pocket with the other, and hurriedly got in line for the ferry, waving goodbye to Mum and Dad every couple of minutes until finally she was onboard.

She wasted no time in wiggling her way through the crowd, eager to be the first one to the top deck. Nobody ever went up there when the ship was just setting sail, even though it had easily the best view. She never understood why that was, but she always made sure to get herself there at departure, both for the view and to avoid the crowds.

She leaned up against the white metal railing, trying to find Mum and Dad in the crowd, but failing. Before she had the chance, everyone was already on board and the ferry was moving. So, Krystelle just waved out to the whole crowd of parents, hoping her parents would see it. Glumly, after a while of that, she looked down at a group of Juniors Krystelle didn’t recognize still waving, some leaning on each other and crying as the ferry began to turn and head away.

 _New kids_ , she thought to herself, _Gross._ She laughed, not really knowing why, then decided to make her way back downstairs, to her favorite spot on the back of the ferry, near the rudders. She knew there was no use in trying to find Fern.

_Fern...god I miss when I could still her call her that._

There she sat, watching the mainland of Northern Ireland disappear as she sketched two mermaids in her notebook, one with boobies, one without, with a bunch of question marks over both their heads. Occasionally she took a break to take a drink from her water bottle, as she felt her stomach continued to rumble. Breakfast felt like forever ago, and she couldn’t wait for the lunch cart to come.

“Oi, looks like someone _is_ sat back here!”

Krystelle turned her head. An older girl was peeking her head out of the back cabin door.

 _Hello, hello, hello,_ Krystelle thought, going red at the girl’s smile.

She was tall and thin, but with a strong pair of shoulders, high cheekbones and large eyes of a heavy gray color. She had short blonde hair, parted in the front and tied in the back, with a blue ribbon tied around her neck, a white button-up blouse, and tan skirt.

“Uh...hi,” said Krystelle, smiling nervously. She hated meeting new people, especially pretty ones.

“Hi,” the girl replied with a chuckle, “What’re you doing by yourself? There’s lots of room in here.”

“Um…crowds make me nervous,” she spoke honestly.

“Oh, well, would you mind if my friend and I stood out on the rail? We just got word from the captain that we’re free to move about, and we wanted some fresh air ourselves.”

“Feel free.”

Krystelle shrugged, and returned to her drawing.

“Top o’ the morning,” a boy’s all-too-happy voice said.

Krystelle sighed, forced a smile back on her face, and looked up. She didn’t find most boys as cute as most girls, but this kid came close. He was tall for his age, at least five feet, with wide shoulders, long, shaggy light brown hair, and clear pale skin, with rosy cheeks. More than anything, she was taken aback by his amazingly blue eyes, a shade of blue so pretty she didn’t think she’d ever seen it before. She saw something gentle in these eyes, and in that smile, like he’d known her all her life.

“Name’s Finnbar, Finnbar Negus. And this here’s Portia Figg. What’d they call you, girl?”

She had a hard time understanding him. He spoke with an accent so thick she had to think for a minute to interpret what he said.

“Krystelle,” she replied, “Krystelle Gandy.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Krystelle. You a transfer?”

“Uhh...no. Junior Academy.”

“Get outta town! You look more closer to third year than anything.”

“Heh...get that alot.”

Krystelle was tall too, with prominent cheekbones which had always made her look older than she was.

“What’cha drawing?”

“Oh!” she held her notebook close, suddenly self-conscious, “Just--nothing just, something dumb for a friend.”

“Ahh if it’s for a friend, can’t be that dumb. But it’s ok, I won’t ask. Ma always told me to respect a lady’s privacy.”

Krystelle felt herself blush. She’d never been called a lady before. Not unless it was when one of her parents reprimanded her in the manner of “Get down from that tree, young lady!”

“Well we won’t bother you anymore,” said Finnbar, with a bow, “Just wanted to watch the view is all.”

“Uh, actually, you can sit here if you want.”

“Aw, how sweet of you!” said Portia Figg, “Who knew you had a way with the ladies, Finn?”

“Haha, gross!”

The two took their seats beside Krystelle, and she suddenly felt a lot lighter than when she got aboard. It was a welcome change to feel part of a group. She was so used to being by herself at school, she tended to forget how nice it was to have...well she wouldn’t call them friends yet. She just met them after all. Still, they were nice to her, and they were both older, so that had to count for something.

Still, it felt awkward to just sit there quietly. She felt she had to say something to them, especially when they were so nice already.

 _Dad did say you should make some more friends this year,_ she thought. _No time like the present._

“So, um, hey….”

_Oh no. I forgot her name already. Oh no!_

“Um….” Krystelle just pointed, staring blankly.

“Portia.” she giggled in reply

“Right, Portia! Sorry, I’m new to this.”

“Aw, it’s ok honey, I’m terrible with names too, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Thanks,” said Krystelle, smiling.

_She called me honey…swoon!_

“So, Portia, what are you all about?”

“Oh, you know; dancing, music, flying my broom. My folks are broke, so I try to keep things simple, you know? Oh, I took on a job as cabin counselor this summer, off on the island. That was fun.”

“Ahhh, I see,” said Krystelle, listening intently, “Very cool. How old are you guys?”

“Thirteen, the both of us,” replied Portia, “I’m planning on going into a dance major once I get through my exams, and Finn here’s going into music.”

 _  
_ “Ahhh, cool,” said Krystelle, nodding, “What are your parents like?”

“Oh, my folks are alright,” she replied, starting to smile again, “I’m half and half, you see. Dad’s a choreographer, says I’m his muse,” she said this proudly.

“Oh cool!”

_Am I saying cool too much? Oh god, do I sound like an idiot? It’s ok, relax, they probably don’t notice. That’s a lie they totally noticed, just don’t do it again. Bugger, you’ve been quiet for too long, say something else!_

“So like, does he do plays, musicals and the like?”

“Oh definitely! It doesn’t pay as much as you’d think, and it’s hard to find work in it. When he does find it, he has to travel a lot, and I might not see him for months. It’s not easy, but it’s what he loves doing.”

“And your Mum?”

“Oh, she’s the Muggle in the family, a maid. Works for a big office building in London. She used to be a backup dancer on the West End, that’s how she met dad. She took a nasty fall though, ruined her back, and that was that, you know?”

“Aw, that sucks.”

  
“Yeah. Fun fact, my folks had four kids, and I’m the only witch or wizard out of any of them.”

“Dang. Did you have to keep it a secret?”

“Of course not. It was tough for Mum, though. Dad couldn’t tell her he was a wizard until after I was born, and I’m the second oldest. They split up for a while after that, but they got back together.”

“Aw, that’s good.”

_Good, good, keep it simple. The simpler you reply, the less room there is to bugger up._

“How about yourself?”

“Oh, I’m kinda in the middle. Dad’s on the Board of Directors at Flamel Enterprises, but I’m not sure what he does. We’re not rich, I don’t think, but I got it pretty sweet.”

“That’s always good,” said Portia.

“Sorry, was that bragging? I didn’t mean it.”

  
“Haha no no, you’re fine, lass.”

“And Finn, music major, huh?” asked Krystelle, “So you play?”

“Aye,” he replied, grinning, “Guitar mostly, although I’m learning the piano too. Started this summer.”

“Wow, two instruments? I bet your parents are really proud of you.”

Both Portia and Finn got quiet then, and frowned. Finn looked almost like he’d just been slapped in the face, his eyes turning downward.

“What?” said Krystelle, now frowning herself.

“My parents…they’re not around anymore,” said Finn.

“Oh…” Krystelle’s face went red, her throat tightened. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this bad. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s ok, alannah. Just yeah...touchy subject.”

“Can I ask how they...actually nevermind.”

“Aye, thanks,” said Finn, nodding.

For a while they just sat there in silence, staring out at the water, Krystelle’s face going beat red as she started sweating, even in the chilly breeze from off the sea. She couldn’t be more embarrassed, and every time she tried to say something else, it just got caught in her through as a tiny squeak. So she just sat there smiling casually as she always did, almost certain that they could tell she was floundering.

“FIIINN!”

All three of their heads turned to the side as a huge, yet scrawny, figure sped out of the cabin and jumped into Finn’s lap.

“Oi, give over!” he yelled.

The kid was panting, and talking so fast with Finn’s same Irish accent that Krystelle had no clue what he was saying.

“OinawFideyrecumitagimeh!”

“Who’s coming, yeh dolt?”

In a flash, three more boys, much shorter than the kid on Finn’s lap, exited the corner as well, prompting the boy to climb up Finn, standing on his lap, much to Finn’s protest, and then leap from the bench altogether with an over-the-shoulder roll, before running round the corner down the deck, with his pursuers still hot on his tail.

Krystelle looked at Finn totally flabbergasted.

“Heh, sorry alannah,” he said, “That be Colm, my little brother, along with who I presume are the rest of his mates he brought with him from the Otherworld.”

“Little?” said Krystelle, incredulously, “He looked almost as tall as you are.”

“Aye, he got Da’s height, I got Ma’s. He’ll be taller than me one day, I reckon. Sorry about the rumpus there. I like to say he’s ten going on five.”

“Ten years old? Woah, he still in primary?”

“Naw, he’ll be eleven in about a week. He’s going to Junior.”

“What major does he want?”

  
“Singing. He bloody _loves_ singing, he does it whenever he’s not talking or catching his breath.”

“Aw, that sounds cute.”

“Aye sure, when he’s not keeping the whole bloody place up till the wee hours of the night with it.” he sighed.

“Ah, I hear that. Well, not really. I’m an only child.”

“Lucky!” both Portia and Finn said at the same time.

They both started laughing then, and Krystelle laughed along with them.

_Ok, now we’re getting somewhere._

“So,” Krystelle continued, “Want to see my new wand?”

“Aw, sure honey!” Portia beamed, “I remember when I got mine.”

Krystelle reached into her robes and pulled it out.

“Mahogany and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches even. Ollivander said it’s the perfect kind of wand for transfiguration.”

“Sweet!” said Portia, “Mine’s _Spanish Oak_ and heartstring. I can’t remember how long it is, though.”

“How about you, Finn?” Krystelle asked.

“How bout me, what?”

“What kind of wand do you have?”

“Oh, hehe...the kind that doesn’t exist.”

“Huh?”

“I ain’t a wizard, miss.”

Krystelle gasped.

“Oh, hehe, sorry, I forget, they let Muggles into this place too.” Her face went red again.

“Oh, aye.”

“Just never actually spoken to one like this before. One of my bunkmates in primary, Ursula, she was a squib, but that’s about as close as I’ve gotten.”

“Ah well, here we are then. Don’t worry, I’ve been hanging out with this one for years and I’ve not burned her at the stake yet. Fingers crossed I’ll keep resisting, eh?”

Portia giggled, “Git.”

So Krystelle, Portia and Finn kept on chatting as the boat sailed closer to Rathlin Island. For the most part, Krystelle just kept asking Finn questions about what being a Muggle was like, while he occasionally fought off Colm, who kept jumping into his lap and jumping out every time he and his friends completed a lap around the deck.

Just as the sun was starting to set, and the deck lamps magically flickered to life, the snack cart exited the cabin and turned to the three.

“Anything off the trolley?” asked the old fellow pushing it.

“You like pumpkin juice?” asked Finn to Krystelle, who nodded yes, “Three pumpkin juices, two cauldron cakes, and anything sweet for you, Krystelle?”

Krystelle blushed yet again. If he was offering, she knew what she’d love right about now, but she was always self-conscious about asking for it.

“Have, um...have you got cockroach clusters?” she asked, meekly.

“Certainly, love!” said the old man, “With or without peanut butter?.”

“With, definitely” said Krystelle, smiling, “Two please.”

The trolleyman handed them all their snacks and drinks, then went on his way without waiting to be paid.

“I got family what works for the school,” Finn explained, “Colm and I get our snacks on the house.”

“Nice,” Krystelle smiled, “And...thanks, guys, for not laughing.”

“What, the cockroach clusters?”

“Yeah. They called me a freak in primary for liking them. Even Mum and Dad won’t buy them, says they’ll make me sick, but that’s a load. They’re delicious! You can’t even taste the bug part! Just chocolate, crunchy goodness.”

Finn raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the point o’ the roach, then?”

Portia elbowed him in the shoulder.

“Don’t fret, darling we don’t judge,” said Portia, “You be true to yourself and what you like, and forget what some smart prat has to say about it.”

“Thanks...that’s cool of you to say.”

“Don’t mention it, sis.”

She winked, and Krystelle’s heart fluttered.

“Actually,” Finn piped in, “I think I may be brave enough to try a bite off one of those, if’n yer offering?”***

Just as night began to fall on the Rathlin Ferry, Church’s Bay (the Muggle settlement on the island) came more and more into focus, with only scant light sources illuminating the docks, contrasting greatly with the lights of the Academy even further on the land’s horizon, stretching from just above the town, all the rest of the way of that right side of the island. Krystelle figured the Summer Camp kids in the Academy Village would just now be getting ready for the start-of-year dinner, along with the primary kids.

By this time, all the kids who weren’t already in their school uniforms had changed into them. Krystelle was dolled up in her white shirt and green tie, under a dark orange v-neck sweater, with matching skirt and knee-high stockings. Portia wore the uniform of the College of Dance; a knee-length silver dress, short-brimmed white sun hat with violet band, and mary-jane shoes with pantyhose.

Colm wore a similar uniform as Krystelle, but with a green-and-orange plaid kilt which went down past his knees, in place of a skirt. Finn wore the College of Music’s uniform: a dark blue blazer, black striped shirt, and blue slacks with patches on the knees with his house colors, one orange and one dark blue, all topped with a white-and-grey checkered peaky cap.

As Krystelle, Portia, Finn, and Colm (his hand being held by his brother), departed the ferry, they heard the sound of sleigh bells over the chatter of the crowd.

“Juniors this way, now!” said a scruffy, throaty man, “First year academy this way now!”

The crowd began to thin and dispersed on the shoreline, and over on the stone-paved road stood a little stout man, with a large bald stop on top of his head, but long hair stretching to the middle of his back, and a long dirty-blonde beard. He wore a flannel shirt over his official academy robes, and in his hand, large relative to the rest of his body, he continued to jingle a fistfull of bells on a leather strap. Krystelle recognized him as the dwarfish academy quidditch coach, but couldn’t remember his name until Finn called out.

“Evening, Ric!” said Finn, waving.

“Eve— oi, you!” he turned to his left, “Quit that shoving! Oh er, hey Finn. Off to the carriages with yeh then?”

“I suppose so. Oi, Colm?”

“Yeah, stupid?” replied Colm, smiling broadly and dumbly.

“You’ll be well-behaved if I leave you alone?”

“Nope!”

“Colm….”

‘Not gonna happen, mate, sorry!”

“Well will you commit no violence against anyone on the bus at least?”

“I’m gonna _kill_ _everyone_ on that bus, mate, just you wait! Mwahahaha!”

“Colm I’s serious, now.”

“So am I!”

“Oi, Colm!” Ric butted in, “You mind your brother, else I’m blocking yeh from the track team again!”

“Nooooooo!” Colm screeched. Krystelle had to cover hear ears because he sounded exactly like nails on a chalkboard, the sound clawing through his vocal cords.

“I’ll be goooooooood!” yelled Colm, then pulled away from Finn’s hand.

  
He ran faster than Krystelle had ever seen anyone run, past the little person, up the hill road, and turned a corner around the large white school bus Krystelle only just noticed.

“It’s ok, Ric,” Finn insisted, “He knows the way. Plus he knows that’s the way to get himself to behave, burn all t’energy outta ‘im.”

“Ah, well met,” said Ric, “Off to the carriages with yeh then. You too, Ms. Figg.”

“Right, coach!” Portia turned to Krystelle, smirking, “We best split up before Gimli over there busts us.”

“I heard that!”

“Gotta run!”

Finn turned one last time.

“This’ll be goodbye then, for now,” he said, glumly, “Do I get a cheeky little hug, alannah?”

“Um...sure,” said Krystelle, with a shrug.

Finn then took her in his huge arms, squeezed her tight, and picked her up.

“Oof!” she grunted, “Errm, Finn?”

“Purdy kitty, I will love her and pet her and call her mine.”

He sounded like he was doing an impersonation of an elephant. After holding her for a second longer, he set her down.

“Heh, sorry, couldn’t resist.”

Krystelle merely giggled, feeling struck dead all of a sudden as he walked away. Now very much red in the face, her her stomach was rumbling fierce. The cockroach clusters ended up only making her hungrier. Without hesitation, she followed the dwarf’s guidance up the village road to the line of buses at the top of the hill.

Awkwardly, Krystelle shuffled in shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Juniors, trying hard to keep her head down lest she have to talk to or recognize anyone from primary. She would wait until they got to the dining hall and get back together with Fern, and that would be it. No more new, strange kids.

She took her seat and already began to kick herself for the thought. That older kid had been a little weird, but he was also really nice. Maybe he’d give him another try some other time. It was at that point she shook back to reality, as she only just realized the bus driver was listing off the safety speech. He was striking in his purple v-neck shirt and large-lapeled black leather jacket.

“-- at all times!” he called out, “And remember, if you get motion sickness, there’s a sick bag in the pocket in front of you. Once we get to the caves, please exit in single file like you came in, and do not scurry. We needn’t another mess like last term, though...right, that was funny how--well I’ll not get started. Now are there any questions?”

Of course there were none.

“Then we’ll be off. Ladies and gentlemen, please have a _fantastic_ school term!”

With that, the driver jumped down into the driver’s seat, buckled his seatbelt, and began turning a series of knobs and pressing buttons which made an assortment of strange honks and beeps. The bus then burst forward suddenly, then stopped. After the bus driver turned the key harshly a few times more, the engine burst to life again, and they all began to follow the rest of the line of busses already in motion up the road.

They continued onward for only about ten or twenty minutes, Krystelle occasionally looking back down at her sketchbook, until finally the famed academy in all its glory came into focus on the narrow horizon. The central stone Central Hall stood prominently amidst the school’s five large teaching halls, all of which were centered around three old, dead trees. She knew well that the village and primary school would be just off to the right of the Great Hall, behind all the buildings.

Off beyond the Academy, stood tall a tower painted the school colors, in a spiral runnin up the wall, and a becon atop. The Western Lighthouse was flashing brightly a solid orange hue against the violet twilight sky. Immediately, Krystelle turned to the next page in her sketchbook and wrote the title for the _second_ drawing she’d send to Dora:

 

_To the Lighthouse_

“Hang on, folks!”

Krystelle looked back up, and immediately felt a sinking feeling in her tummy, like something was pushing up on her bottom. She looked out the window and immediately saw why. The bus was lifting off the smooth road, and flying up, off into the evening sky. It was finally happening!

Her heart soared a little, though she knew she wouldn’t be showing it as the entire cabin filled with gasps and ahhs, while she remained silent and relaxed in the face. While the boy sitting next to her turned around to speak to a friend, she just leaned her chin against he cheek, and took in the aerial view of the school grounds as they looped around it; gorgeous lawns and topiaries in the quad around the dead trees, the lights of dozens of stained-glass windows in Central, the teeny dots of the village stretching the length of the island from the Academy all the way to Robert’s Castle, still ruined down the hill of rock.

 _Been a while since we stopped her down there,_ Krystelle thought to herself.

Just then, she felt her back hit the seat behind her as the bus began to speed up over the water, and higher up into the autumn clouds. They continued, following the line of buses in front of them until finally, the bus in front of them shot straight upward.

“Here comes my favorite part, boys and girls!”

The whole cabin shrieked and Krystelle fumbled to grab hold of her sketchbook as she felt her own hair rise, and blood rush to her head, for but a moment, before finally returning to normal. She then hit the side of the bus a little harder than comfortable as the line turned sharply right and downward. From out of the front window, a huge cave--no two!-- came into focus through the clouds. One to the left dark and foreboding, the other man-carved into the cliffside, resembling a simple garage from a distance.

 _Bugger me,_ Krystelle thought to myself, _Nice trick, only I wish I’d paid attention during the safety bit. Would have been nice to expect a loop-de-loop._

The bus slowed to a crawl as it began docking into the garage. The cabin shook and jerked back and forth as the wheels made contact with the ground once more. Krystelle looked back and forth around the bus at how amazed and breathless most of the kids were. She couldn’t help but feel down at this sight.

_I wish I could be that bloody enthusiastic._

She couldn’t dwell on it, though. Immediately the others got up from their seats and shuffled back into single file, ready to exit the bus. The doors hissed as they opened, and immediately started the line moving along. Krystelle saw the driver waving goodbye and saying nice things to the students as they were leaving, going almost entirely ignored. She frowned at this.

“Thanks mister,” she said as she left, “Great job with the loop-de-loop!”

“Much obliged, miss!” he replied, smiling broadly with pure white teeth.

Now smiling again, Krystelle held her sketchbook tightly to her chest, and joined the others.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fern Mandovani, the Gandies, and Portia Figg are owned by littlebityamelie
> 
> Dora Flamel, Finn and Colm Negus are owned by the-mind-of-kleinnak


	3. First Night, First Day

 " _Welcome to my world_ _  
_ _won't you come on in_ _  
_ _miracles I guess_ _  
_ _still happen now and then_ _  
_ _  
_ _Step into my heart_ _  
_ _and leave your cares behind_ _  
_ _welcome to my world_ _  
_ _built with you in mind”_  
\- Dean Martin, Welcome to My World, 1967

 

After a few tense minutes of standing in the drafty stone hangar, the large double doors on the far side of the room opened, and in stood a tall, mustachioed man leaning, as ever, on his bronze-colored wooden cane. He was a gangly man of short, brown hair, and he wore a white Muggle business suit, a long gold chain of a pocket watch hanging from his vest pocket. Everyone from primary would know him (some said he was more in charge of the school than old man Howe himself), but this was the first time he’d be escorting any of them to the start-of-term feast.

“Welcome everyone,” he said, “And for all our primary school kids, welcome back.”

He paced back and forth in front of the crowd, slightly hobbling over his cane, yet maintaining an air stiff and proper, like a military man.

“For those of you who did _not_ have the pleasure of attending a primary education on my island, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jefferson Watkins, M.D. late of the Royal Army Medical Corps, composer, Deputy Headmaster at Rathlin Academy these past ten years, and Head of the College of Music these past _five_ years.”

Someone in the crowd whistled.

Jefferson whistled in reply, “--is right. Do your homework, lads, and go to bed on time. S’all it takes.”

Several people laughed at that, and Watkins gave a cheeky grin.

“Now everyone, you’ll be following me through these doors and into the Academy Union, just off North Hall. You’ll be taking your meals there from now on. After we present you to your classmates we’ll have you take a seat where you can find one, then we can let you have your supper. We’re pulling out all the stops tonight, just for you newcomers. Are there any questions?”

A girl in the back near Krystelle raised her hand.

“When are we going to get sorted into our Houses?” she asked.

Dr. Watkin’s got a small twinkle in his eye.

“Ahh, thinking of Hogwarts?” he said, grinning, “Not sick of us already, are we?”

“No, not at all! Just, well, my big sister’s a Hufflepuff, so—”

“There, there, miss,” Dr Watkins assured, chuckling, “It is a very fair question. We _do_ operate a bit differently than our good friends up north.

“You see, here at Rathlin Academy, your House is merely whatever your prospective major is to be, which may be declared at the start of your Second Year. And because you don’t officially get to choose those _permanently_ until the end of your Fifth Year, you won’t have to be set in one House year to year, necessarily. If you spend your Second Year having declared yourself pre-Theater and find it not to your liking? Well, first of all, who could blame you, when clearly the Music major is far superior?”

More laughter from that, though a few of the new students looked a bit hurt.

“A joke of course. Professor Foley has forgotten more about the classics than I will ever know. But if you happen to find your passions are elsewhere, you may change to another major the following year, until you finish Fifth Year at least. For _this_ year, however,you all in Junior Academy, will be regarded as one House, complete with your own prefects. I won’t pick them out just yet, but you’ll certainly get a chance to get to know them forthwith, during the presentation.

“Now then, everybody, introductions aside, let’s move along. Step lightly right behind me and we can get this year started off right, what do you say?”

The crowd cheered, and all at once the stairway leading up was full of deafening, excited chatter. The stone walls quickly faded into white-washed flooring and ornate golden wallpaper. The arched ceiling above depicted a myriad of kelpies, cherubs, and bearded figures in togas overseeing some sort of invasion from a fleet of longships, as men with long beards and steel helmets stormed the beaches with shields and spears. As they all continued upward, Krystelle had a hard time keeping track of all the activity going on in the painting. Some of the toga’ed men seemed to be flirting with the kelpies, while two of the barbarian men on the beaches seemed to have gotten into an argument amongst themselves, pushing each other as their fellows continued marching on into grassy terrain.

“Oi!” Watkins called up, “Merk, Erk, you two play nice now, we have first years coming!”

“Wuh?” said the two barbarians.

“First years! You’re only meant to get this scene right once a year, eh?”

He then called over his shoulder,

“ _Vikings._ No accounting for them whatever!”  

As they kept on tromping up the stairs, the passage began to level out, until it eventually gave way to a narrow hallway, and then, finally, a grand ballroom. They all poured in, their steps echoing against the cavernous walls, all adorned with paintings, both moving and not. To the left was a large set of glass double doors, and on the domed ceiling was a mural of dark stained glass which glistened against the crystal chandelier which hung above. Below them was a hardwood floor checkered with tiles of light tan and dark brown, full of sheen.

Dr Watkins lead them left, beside a pair of double doors on the opposite side of the room, then stopped.

“Just one moment more, children,” he said, “I’ll announce you, then we’ll make our way in!”

He opened one of the doors a crack, and slipped inside. Immediately the crowd began chattering in hushed tones.

“You excited?”

Krystelle turned to see who’d said that. It was Colm Negus, smiling at her with wide eyes, gently bouncing where he stood.

“Uhh yeah,” Krystelle replied, smiling politely.

“I’m _really_ excited! Like _reeeeeeeeeeally_ excited!”

“I can see that.”

“Like _reeeeeeeeeeeeeea—”_

“Ok ok, I get it,” said Krystelle, a bit harsher than she meant to.”

“...really excited!”

She groaned.

“So what did you think of Finn?”

“He’s really cool.”

“That’s an understatement, matey. Finn’s like the best, coolest, best bloke you’ll ever meet, and I’m gonna be like him when I grow up!”

“You wouldn’t know it judging from how you spoke to him that whole ride over,” she said, “You wouldn’t stop calling him stupid.”

“Oh come oooon,” he said, shrugging “That’s just how I talk. It’s a joke! Don’t you know a joke when you hear one?”

“I didn’t hear him laughing.”

“...it was just a joke.” he repeated.

“He means it,” another voice said.

They both turned around. A much shorter girl stood behind them looking stone-faced. She was nearly a head and a half shorter than the two of them, and looked up at them with large, deep blue eyes. Her straw-colored, hair hung straight and very low, framing her face, partially obscuring her face.

“I sense that he does not know how to express his emotions, so he just says whatever he thinks will get a reaction out of people.”

“Wuuuuh!” said Colm, “Wi-zah words, kemosabi sensei!”

He said the last part with a bow and a feigned Japanese accent.

“You...two know each other?”

“Actually no,” said Colm, normally, “Who are you?”

The girls’ eyes grew startled, and she shuffled through the crowd till she emerged on the other side.

“I like her!” said Colm, “She’s a nutter, I can tell.”

The talkative crowd slowly drew to a hush, then was silent completely as Dr. Watkins stepped back through the doors and _ahem_ ’ed. ‘

“Thank you for waiting, children,” he said, “We are ready for you now. Single file lines, everybody, here and here. Good! Now follow me,.”

At last the huge doors opened all the way, and the three lines of Juniors were led down the middle of two groups of three long rows of tables, all with cushioned pull-out chairs seating other students. On either side of the hall, were two long buffets, empty for now. The hall itself was even more cavernous than the lobby, and almost crowded with art. Everywhere in the room that the eye could see there were paintings, busts and statues standing in niches in the wall, framed documents, sculptures, and even some standing stones and large stone tablets.

Grandest of all was the ceiling, which immediately made Krystelle feel the tiniest she’d ever been. It seemed to rise up hundreds of feet high, made up of four domes grouped two by two, each one at least fifty or sixty feet wide, and each one depicting a story told in oil paint and gold varnish.

In the first dome, marked with a cross in the center, the birth of a baby was being celebrated in a stable, with all the animals and three kings in attendance. The scenes continued around the dome depicting how he grew up, the people he helped and inspired, up until his death on the cross at Calvary, and his resurrection three days later.

The second dome was marked with a six-pointed star, and depicted the lives of several men, their constant trials and tribulations, their covenant with God, their deliverance from bondage in Egypt, and their many wars and kings. The dome painting ended with the destruction of their temple in Jerusalem, as several other men adorned with halos led their people to safety.

The third dome, marked with a crescent moon and star in its center, was a gigantic deviation from the other three domes. Rather than depicting people or events, it merely portrayed five pillars of Arabic calligraphy. Nevertheless, the way the text was enchanted to ripple like a glorious flag, and the way the letters were adorned with outlines of gold and adorned with sparkles like multi colored diamonds, took Krystelles breath away no less than the other paintings did.

The fourth dome was marked with a symbol Krystelle did not recognize, surrounded by a veritable crowd of beings in all shapes and colors; some with several arms or heads, some with the heads of animals like elephants and monkeys, some wielding swords, others merely clasping their hands as if in prayer. There seemed to be depictions of some grand events happening in some parts of the dome, as well as writing from several different languages, but Krystelle didn’t recognize any of them

Dr. Watkins’ voice shook her out of the stupor this hall brought on in her. He bade them all take their places on the raised platform which stood out in the front of the room, before the faculty table. They all lined up in front of it, and Krystelle felt her stomach churn as as she felt all those hundreds of eyes on her.

Dr Watkins stood at the podium, shuffled some papers there together, then began to speak.

“Good evening, everyone! And welcome back! I trust you are all rested from your long summer, and are quite eager to pick up where you left off in June. Before we begin, however, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you, your Junior Academy for this year. They, like you, have come to this hallowed island, to partake in the greatest—”

SNAP!

The whole hall erupted in startlement as a crack echoed throughout the hall. The baby Jesus in the dome above started crying as suddenly a new figure Apparated right onto the stage, with a violin under one arm, and a tin cup in the other. He wore a black suit with a gray cravat, with messy black-and-grey hair, a tattered cloak, and...was that a fake nose?

Krystelle rolled her eyes. Old man Howe _was_ always late, but what had he gotten himself into that he’d make this much of a disturbance?

Watkins stomped over. He looked fit to strangle the Headmaster right then and there

“Sorry, Jefferson, had a meeting at King’s Cross and—”

The two men conferred with each other in harsh whispers for a few moments as Howe removed pieces of his strange costume. Eventually Watkins seemed to give up and just pointed at the large chair at the center of the staff table.

“One thing we have over Hogwarts,” whispered someone beside Krystelle, “We have the madder Headmaster.”

“Ahem, sorry everyone,” said Watkins, straightening his papers again, “Now then, where was I? Oh yes. These Junior students have, like you, come to this school to partake in what may be considered the deepest, truest form of magic. A force capable of swaying entire nations, defining generations, and making ourselves and our collective consciousness be heard throughout the ages.  This is, of course, the study of the arts; of music, dance, theater, painting and sculpting, writing and poetry; the magic in which a Muggle may be the equal of even the most masterful wizard.

“This is the foundation upon which Thomas Moore refounded Rathlin Academy over a hundred and fifty years ago. He brought the vision of Robert the Bruce back into reality after over two centuries of seclusion; the vision of a school for both magic and nonmagic folk. He brought his proposal to the International Confederation of Wizards itself, under the principle that these most powerful of magics are common to all, and should be shared equally. Though the road to maintaining Thomas’ dream has not been an easy one, here standing before you, in defiance of magical norms, stand witches, wizards, and Muggles, side by side, as one House.

“Now, here to present your new young peers, may I present first, the prefects of Junior Academy: from the United States, Amy Leonhardt, and from Scotland, Gaius Fergal!”

A pretty red-haired girl stepped out of the crowd, proudly waving as the hall erupted in applause. She was followed shortly by a short, chubby boy with a moppy head of curly, strawberry blonde hair, bright green, innocent-looking eyes, and faint pink in his pale cheeks. He was smiling faintly, his hands clasped, and he seemed to be crowding Amy Leonhardt a bit, almost as if he was trying to hide from the applauding audience.

Watkins went on to introduce the Head Boy and Head Girl for the year; Richard Davis and Pari Kumar, respectively, but little Gaius definitely drew the most attention out of all four. While the other three were typically pretty by Krystelle’s reckoning, and charismatic, Gaius was sticking out like a sore thumb. A sore, awkward, kinda sweaty thumb.  

_And he’s gonna be our prefect? Gosh they’re going to eat that poor kid alive._

“And now,” said Watkins, “A few words from your Headmaster, the scruffy hobo formally known as Sherrod Howe.”

Applause continued on amidst a small wave of laughter as suddenly the bulk of the hall stood up in chants and and whistles, simply roaring in glee as the man shook hands with Watkins, smiling and nodding, and then took his place at the podium. At once, the students started laughing again. Howe was still wearing his fake nose. Not missing a beat, he ripped the thing off his face, revealing dark black stubble, and began his own announcement.

“I have a few words to say,” he said,  “Before we let you have at the buffet. Oh, Juniors, you can go ahead and sit down now, table’s to your far right, steady on.”

Gaius immediately made a beeline for the table, while the other prefect and the Head Boy and Girl looked a bit abashed and put off. Had they expected to give speeches of their own? Regardless, they were rather quickly lost in the wave of new students following Gaius over to the Junior Academy table. Krystelle found a spot nearest the end, and Colm (much to her regret) took the spot directly next to her.

“Now then,” said Howe, clearing his throat, “Just a quick reminder to all students; Ben Side Lighthouse is strictly forbidden to all students, and oh yes, Fifth Years? Best be thinking on what you want to study hardest in right now, if you haven’t decided on a major already, as you will test into your major field of study and move on to your lower and upper sixths after finishing your exams at the end of this year.

“Juniors? Until then you can count on mainly focusing on graduation requirements and electives. At the end of _this_ year, however, you will be asked to declare a major for advising and house sorting purposes. We’ve taken the liberty of enrolling you in classes besides your general education which should give you a decent sampler of what you may hope to find in your time with us. You’ll be receiving your time tables tomorrow morning at breakfast.

“Now then, enough dallying. I’ve had nothing to eat today except for a half-eaten frank someone threw in my offering cup, and I’m positively famished. Children, if you please, dig in!”

He flourished his hands to either side, and at once the long buffets filled with food of every sort. The savory smells of salt, pepper, meats, dressings and gravy filled the air as the students got up out of their chairs and got in line.

Krystelle groaned in relief as she took her place in line. Immediately Colm, following behind, began regaling her with a totally unasked for lecture on the complete history of the band Queen. By the time they’d gotten to the buffet and taken their trays and plates, he had moved on to the life of Freddie Mercury, starting at his birth.

“A lot of people don’t even _know_ that isn’t his real name, because he was Persian, born in Zanzibar. His real name is Farrokh Bulsara, which I think is a _much_ cooler name. Anyways, he learned how to play piano starting at seven, learned it in India—”

When they finally reached the food, Krystelle was much more successful in drowning him out. The first portion of the buffet was packed with bins stuffed with meats; steak, pork chops, baked chicken, glazed slices of ham, lamb, meatballs and more. The second portion had some sides; salads, chips, soups, rice and beans, couscous, and pasta with four different types of sauce.

Krystelle didn’t get to see the rest of the buffet, for she’d already filled her plate by then. She helped herself to a bit of steak and chips, with a small salad, and got herself a tall glass of orange juice to drink. She returned to her table just a few minutes before Colm did, his plate stacked high with...pancakes?

“They’re serving breakfast food up there?” she asked, incredulously.

“Not really,” he said, “Just pancakes.”

“Uh...why?”

“Because I _love_ pancakes! Duh!”

Krystelle raised an eyebrow, and shook her head, starting into her steak as Colm continued into his little lesson on Freddie Mercury.

“What’s so interesting about _how_ he sings is that he’s naturally a baritone, which means his voice ranges about F2 to F4, but he actually sings in the tenor range, sometimes even hitting _soprano_ notes, that’s all the way to F6! Can you believe that?! It’s amazing that this guy can compose music in so many different instruments, but still be such a master with his voice that he can—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Krystelle interrupted, “Sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I draw, and I really don’t know the first thing about music, so—”

“Oo not a worry, mate! See, there are a bunch of different ways a voice can sound based on things like pitch and what notes you can naturally sing given your vocal chords. There’s bass on top, which is really deep like thiiiiiis,” he demonstrated, “Then there’s tenor, which is more like thiiiiiis,” he raised his voice in pitch a little,” Then there’s my lad Freddie, who sings like THIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!”

Colm all but screamed and the table when deathly quiet. He seemed totally oblivious, and just kept smiling at Krystelle as he went on.

Across the table, and down a few chairs, she saw Gaius in a much different demeanor than he’d taken up onstage. He was deep in conversation with one girl who sat next to him, a lean girl with her auburn hair in a long braid which fell across her shoulder.

 _Well at least he’s not a_ total _outcast,_ thought Krystelle, _I guess I shouldn’t be too harsh on him. I’m certainly not one to talk. Already a prefect_ and _with more friends than I do. Unless Portia and Finn count already? They’re older, though. Shouldn’t I have friends my own age?_

She bit her lip, then remembered her own hunger, and just set to cleaning up her plate, letting Colm run his lip off.

After dinner, and being bid goodnight by Professor Howe, Gaius and Amy took the liberty of guiding the rest of the table up into a single file line, supervised by the academy Head Girl, Pari Kumar. It was Amy who seemed to be the loudest voice of the three, however, as she confidently bade the Juniors march out while poor Gaius seemed to barely be able to raise his voice above a whisper.

They followed Amy, Gaius, and Pari out of the lobby and into the darkness of the Academy grounds, the stone path to the academy village illuminated by gas lamp posts. The breeze was catching up, bringing the smell of the sea with it.

Eventually the line stopped at the entrance to one of the larger buildings amidst the cabins and houses of the village, a sign beside the door reading “Bowtruckle Hall: Junior Academy Dormitory”.

Pari unlocked the door and led the First Years into a large, warm common room. A hearth was already aglow as they entered, surrounded by a ring of sofas and cushy chairs. A series of packed bookshelves sit in the corner beside a few tables, and in the other corner was an easel and a few cabinets.

Krystelle was elected when she saw the mini art studio. Could anyone use it anytime they wanted? She’d have to ask.

“Uh, well, welcome!” said Gaius in a crackly voice, “So, er, lads get the rooms on the top floor, lasses get the ground floor. Bathroom’s down the hall to your left for both. And, well, oh, help yourself to the books or art studio but don’t take anything from the...the….the room. And, well, er, oh yeah, make a note on the sign-in list beside the cabinet there so you know if someone else wants to use it first. First come first serve and all that. The general store in the village has some odds and ends, but the essentials are here. All your bags are beside your beds already. So…any questions?”

Silence.

“Well then,” he said, “Lights out at ten then, and er— welcome!”

The crowd dispersed then, and Krystelle followed the flow of girls down the hall, where they each in turn made their way to their respective quarters. Some stayed behind to chat in the Common Room, but the bulk of them seemed just as exhausted as she was.

The rooms were definitely a step above the dorms down the hill in primary school. These long rooms with high ceilings had four-poster beds, with cushy comforters, silk sheets, and freshly-fluffed feather pillows, all in green and orange, but with ornate white wallpaper of a similar design as back in the lobby. On the opposite wall as the four beds was a painting, as of now featuring only an empty sitting room. Whoever’s painting it was, must have been away or in another painting.

As Krystelle changed into her pajamas, she looked around at who her dorm mates were. She recognized Tina Chokani from the Philippines, and Ursula Phillips, an American squib Krystelle bunked with in primary. The third girl was one Krystelle didn’t recognize at all; she was tall, with tan skin and dirty blonde, curly hair. Tina identified her when she started speaking to her.

“Heya, Mag,” said Tina, “Have a nice summer?”

The girl Mag shrugged, and Tina frowned.

“Oh…getting that bad?”

She shrugged again. Krystelle felt a knot in her chest. Should she say something.

“Hey Tina, hey Ursula,” she said without thinking.

“Oh,” Ursula said, turning, “Hi, Krissie. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Who’s your friend?”

“Magnolia,” she introduced herself, “Magnolia Reynolds. Nice to meet you. Sorry, but I’m not really a talker…”

She went back to folding clothes into her bedside drawers.

“It’s ok, hun,” said Ursula, “It’s just American politics getting us down. We’ll be fine.”

“How about you?” asked Tina, the two walking over to Krystelle’s bed.

“Summer?” said Krystelle, “It was nice. Dora and I pretty much faffed about the whole time. She ended up going to Hogwarts after all.”

“Ooo,” the two girls said.

“Lucky her, going off the same year the Girl Who Lived starts _her_ first year.”

“Is she really?” asked Krystelle, surprised, “Dora and I thought maybe that was just a rumor. Isn’t she a Muggle now?”

“You don’t _become_ a Muggle,” said Tina, rolling her eyes, “She’s just been living as one till now. It’s all anyone’s talking about at the Ministry, though. Dad said they had loads of security planned to escort her to school, but Dumbledore called them off.”

“How would your Dad know that?” asked Ursula, incredulously, “He’s just a secretary.”

“Secretary to the Ambassador to Magical Congress, _Ursula.”_

“What does that have to do with Harriet Potter?”

“Well...he heard a friend say it. I think.”

Ursula and Krystelle giggled, while Tina’s look began to sour.

“Well,” said Krystelle, “Goodnight, girls. And sorry about whatever’s going on in America. I hope it works out.”

“Thanks,” said Mag, as she tucked herself into bed and turned away.

 

“Yeah, means a lot,” said Ursula, smiling, “Don’t worry, sis. Let’s focus on surviving first year for now.”

“Deal!” Krystelle smiled back.

Now all cozy in her kitten-themed PJ’s, she jumped into bed, and pulled back the curtains. Before she closed her eyes to rest for the night, she took one last look at the lighthouse sketch. She’d color it in and fix the lines up a bit before she sent it, but for now it wasn’t that bad. The Ben Side Lighthouse as she remembered it, overlooking the cliffs and coast of Rathlin island, as if in vigil. Before she fell asleep, her thoughts were of Dora, wondering what her first night in Hogwarts might have been like.

 

***

Krystelle awoke the next morning to a very rude awakening.

“RISE AND SHINE!” said the voice of some much older woman, “Rise and shine, ladies! This is your wakeup call!”

Frantically Krystelle jumped out of her covers, her vision fuzzy from sleep, and check to see where the voice was coming from. It was the portrait, now of some fat schoolmistress, clad in black robes which were far too tight, her brown hair in a formal bun, her face like stone but her eyes wide and full of fury.

“You’ll not want to be late on your first day now, girls! Get yourselves cleaned up, dressed, ,and follow your prefects down to breakfast to receive your class schedule for the term!”

She raised a brass bugle to her lips, blasted out a harsh note, then existed the scene to the right.

Krystelle groaned.

 _Well_ that _will take some getting used to._

She managed to make it to the showers before they got too crowded, picked out a stall for herself and cleaned up. Krystelle then made her way to the mirrors in the new fluffy pink bathrobe Mum got for her, her hair wrapped tight in a white towel. Ursula and Amy were brushing their teeth, and Krystelle decided to join them. As she got to work she was a little intimidated by some of the other girls. Many of them were putting upwards of five different kinds of product in their hair, and a couple were even putting on _makeup,_ something her mother insisted she not go within ten yards of until she was thirteen at least.

 

“My daughter is beautiful just the way she is,” her mother had said, “And no child of mine is going to be pressured into painting herself up like some tart before she’s even old enough to be shaving.”

Krystelle figured it probably had something to do with Fern. What happened to her really ended up affecting Mum just as much as Krystelle herself, maybe even moreso. She always seemed determined to be the polar opposite of Fern’s mom after that.

_Fern...I should start looking for her. Maybe ask Gaius or…_

“Hey Amy?” asked Krystelle after spitting out her toothpaste.

“What’s up?” Amy replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, er—,”

“Come on, be quick about it, else we’ll be late.”

“Sorry! Sorry! Alessa. Alessa Selene, she’s attending class here this year, right?”

“Ahh, I see. You’re a Wendy fan?”

_Wendy the Wandless Witch can burn in Hell, actually. I just want to see my best friend again…_

“Err yeah, pretty much,” Krystelle giggled nervously, “What room is she in?”

“First of all, shame on you for wanting to crowd the celebrity,” Amy winked, “Second of all, it’s actually for that reason that Alessa isn’t going to be staying in the dorms. Velvet Ribbon Management paid mint for her to get her own personal cottage.”

“Oh, umm...which cottage, can I ask? Just in case I wanna send her a fan letter.”

“Number 12, just two or three doors down from Howe’s place. Now let’s hop to it, eh? We don’t want to miss breakfast, do we?”

Krystelle hurried up at that, and as soon as her hair was dried and straightened, she jumped into a fresh uniform, and followed Amy and Gaius back to Central Hall with the rest of the class.

Once she settled into the same chair as last night, her plate full of eggs, beans and toast, she looked up agape at what was coming through the windows. Not owls, but seagulls were swarming up above in the four domes, small envelopes affixed to their orange webbed feet.

One landed right beside Krystelle’s plate (rather gracefully for such an awkward bird), and stuck out its foot in offering. She took the envelope from the seagull, who then shuffled aside and took back to the air. Krystelle opened the envelope.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays it seemed she had general education, while Tuesdays and Thursdays were dedicated entirely to art. Her first class was in just twenty minutes; Transfiguration with Professor O'Carroll. Then it was Potions with Professor Carlyle, Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor J. Weston. Lastly, after lunch she had…. _maths_?

Krystelle groaned.

“Maths?” she said aloud, “Here I thought we were done with that Muggle crap.”

“Ah ah, steady there, Gandy,” a boy’s voice replied.

She turned, and over he shoulder was standing Pari, the Head Girl, as she was patrolling the aisles.

“Maths are a cross-over class,” she said, “Important to Muggles and witches alike, that is. Can’t make potions without knowing your measurements, your ratios, your conversions, and the like. Over at Hogwarts they lump all that in _with_ Potions, but here it’s its own class.”

Krystelle blushed, embarrassed but still bummed out. She was _terrible_ at maths.

 

“Don’t worry,” said Pari, “You only got to take it our first two or three years. The non-magic students got to take it all seven! Count yourself lucky in that regard, Ms. Gandy.”

Suddenly, the sound of the school bell rang proudly throughout the cavernous hall.

“That’ll be a quarter to the hour, Gandy. Finish up and head on over to Transfig, will you? Make it a good one today.”

She winked, and went on her way, giving similar commands to the other Juniors.

Krystelle took a deep breath, scarfed down the last of her beans and eggs, washed them down with a bit of tea, then headed on to North Hall, book bag under her arm, wand tucked in her robes.

North Hall adjoined Central Hall directly, and was consequently the largest of the Academy’s six halls, all centered around Central and the three huge dead trees. North Hall was at least four stories high, with similar pyramidal spires jutting from the top of the edges of the complex roof, and stone-carved facades.

Inside, the walls were of dark brown sculpted wood, and the thick air smelt distinctly of dried citrus, old books, and just a hint of fireworks. The smell made Krystelle smile, and excited something in her. This would be where she was finally going to learn real magic.

Shaking herself out of the stupor, she followed the old red rug down the hall to the left and up a wide staircase to the second floor. From there she found a seat in Professor O’Carroll’s large classroom, crowded on all sides with other Juniors, waiting for him to come. They did not wait long, as Krystelle had barely had time to remove her inkwell and quill pen when a tall, old bloke stepped into the room from the front door behind them all.

Their professor had short, balding brown hair, and seemed to be gently chewing on his own lower lip, so his white teeth were almost always showing. After pulling some folders and notes out of his bulky dark green robes, he pulled off a set of red aviators to reveal two light blue eyes, one squinted. Between that and his mouth, he had a very severe, off-putting expression, like he had just been told his daughter had taken the family car for a joy ride _again_.

He settled the class down, pulled out his wand and began the lecture.

“Right, well now, let’s get introductions aside then. Name’s Wilson O’Carroll. Been teaching Transfiguration these past nineteen years. You’ll be having me as your professor till you’re all finished with your fourth year, so I’d make nice with me. No lollygagging in my class, no sir no sir!

“You are all in for a treat, however. You have the pleasure of beginning the term with perhaps the most vital discipline in all of our world. This is the ability which separates the wizard from the Muggle so exceptionally. For you see, within the discipline of Transfiguration, we have at our fingertips nothing less than the abolition of scarcity. But...perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. Who here can tell me: what _is_ Transfiguration…? Anyone?”

His non-squinted eye scanned the classroom as he continued biting his lip.

Someone raised their hand. Something telled Krystelle that this girl would have raised her hand a couple seconds ago if Professor O’Carroll hadn’t had such an...interesting first impression.

“Ms. Chokani, yes?”

“Transfiguration,” said Tina, “The study of spellcraft which focuses on the transformation of one form of energy or matter into another form.”

“Well said, Ms. Cambridge, well said. Anyone else?”

Silence.

“Transfiguration,” said Professor O’Carroll, “Does involve transformation, yes, but doesn’t _every_ discipline to some degree? In Potions, you take two or more ingredients and make something new. But we don’t consider _that_ transfiguration, eh? What else is there, laddies, come now! YES, Mr. Hannity?!”

A boy in the corner jumped, looking almost remorseful for raising his hand.

“Well,” he said, “Er— um, in potions you combine two things to _create_ something new. But in transfiguration you take one thing and _transform_ it into another thing.”

“You are… _absolutely_ correct, Mr. Hannity! Very good!”

The boy smiled, and Professor O’Carroll continued.

“Transfiguration cannot _create_ anything. It cannot _add_ or _subtract_ to an object, no. It can only take some fundamental physical factor, and grant it the appearance of another. Yes, I said _appearance_. What do I mean by this? Observe.”

Professor O’Carroll pulled out his wand with a flick, and pointed it with a flourish at a nearby wooden stool. With a flash, the stool took the shape of a small, pink pig, which began sniffing at the ground and scurrying around the professor’s legs.

“The stool is now transfigured into a pig. A classic example. However...it is, is it not, a fundamental reality of magic that no spell can create true life, in a biological sense?”

Krystelle felt taken back. That _was_ what people said. No spell can bring the dead back to life, so how could a spell turn a nonliving stool into a living pig?

“So how did I do this, you may be asking? ‘Professor O’Carroll! My God, you should take this discovery straight to the Department of Mysteries, you’ve made history!’ _No._ For you see, I haven’t actually created a pig. Rather, I have _bewitched_ that stool with the artificial intelligence and _form_ of a pig, you see? So when I poke the pig with my wand like so:”

He did so, and the pig, with a squeal of surprise, was a wooden chair once more.

“Herein lies the true nature, the true beauty, and ultimately the true _limitation_ of transfiguration. You can change the _form_ , and therefore the _function_ of a thing, but you cannot alter the _nature_ of a thing. This is the truth which lays at the heart of Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and its Five Exceptions, and it is _this_ topic which we shall begin our journey, our _saga_ , if you will, into the art of— by the way, it’s at this point the lot of you are going to want to start taking _notes_!”

That last word was said at a much higher volume, and the whole class immediately opened up their notebooks and began scribbling the lecture down. For the rest of the class period Professor O’Carroll, his top teeth ever flared, his voice always undulating as he made points, extrapolated on the fundamentals of transfiguration. You needed keen knowledge of both what you were transfiguring and what you wanted to transfigure it _into_. At the end of class he gave each student a wooden toothpick, and directed them to a particular section of the textbook describing the spell to turn it into a steel sewing needle.

Next up was Potions, with Professor Carlyle, two floors up. She was an older person as well, with platinum blonde hair, very muscular build, and white robes. From the look of the combination of magical ingredients and strange vials and jars with Muggle labels on them, on the benches in front of the class, Krystelle rightly deduced that Professor Carlyle also taught Chemistry to the Muggle students. She wasn’t nearly as animated as Professor O’Carroll, turned out, but it was still far from boring. Professor Carlyle said she used to be a potionmaster for the Ministry, and she definitely seemed like she knew what she was talking about.

Their first lesson was definitely more hands-on, as she took the class step by step into how to identify some basic ingredients to potions, and how to work with the laboratory equipment safely. They were to wear their hair up at all times, keep their dragonhide gloves tucked into their work robes, and always waft, never directly inhale, what they were brewing. It wasn’t Krystelle’s favorite class ever, but it was fascinating enough that she wasn’t bored. It was a lot like cooking, which Krystelle did like very much.

The last class before Lunch was also the class Krystelle looked forward to the most besides Art: Defense Against the Dark Arts. All her life, she had been fascinated by stories about the war with You-Know-Who, the career of Professor Howe’s trusty partner at the Ministry, Mad-Eye Moody, and of course the famous exploits of Gilderoy Lockhart, slaying banshees and hunting werewolves. If she weren’t such an amazing artist (if Krystelle said so herself), she would definitely see herself as an Auror when she grew up.

This room in North Hall was adorned with mounted taxidermy; heads of strange hybrid creatures, stuffed lizard-monkey things, jars of preserved brains and eyeballs, bloodied spikes of wood or cold iron, and hanging above them, the complete skeleton of what looked like a small dragon.

Right on time, the professor came in, and Krystelle distinctly heard several of the girls gasp, and some giggle, as he took his place at the front desk, silently taking roll immediately. He was tall, very tall, and thin, but with broad shoulders, a square jaw, easy eyes, shoulder-length light brown hair, and a shy look about him.

Professor Jared Weston; one-half of the famous Weston brothers, and easily the dreamiest teacher Krystelle figured she’d ever have (not dreamy to _her_ , but she did have to admit it).

“Alright, everybody here?” he called out, his voice deep yet sharp, “Good. Let’s get started. For those who don’t know, I’m Professor Weston, and I’ll be teaching you guys Defense for now until you have to worry about your OWLs. I was an exterminator with the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for a couple years, I did freelance with my brother and father before that, basically since I was a kid, and now I’m doing this. My brother, Sal, teaches fifth through seventh years right here at this school. Stick with us and we’ll give you the tools to keep you safe.”

A boy raised his hand.

“Ahh questions already, nice,” said Professor Weston, a little apprehensive, “Mr. Negus, is it?”

Krystelle balked, and turned around sharply. It _was_ Colm!

 _I thought he was a Muggle?, s_ he thought, _What is he doing in a magic class? Is he Muggleborn or something? No way_ this _brother should have been the one to get magic!_  

“So isn’t it true,” said Colm, “That Sherrod always goes to you guys when he needs some heads cracked?”

Professor Weston chuckled softly.

“Sal and I do double up as Academy security when the need arises, if that’s what you mean.”

“Has Sherrod ever sent you to kill anyone? What was it like? Was it gross?”

Professor Weston stared blankly, raised his eyebrow and began trailing off.

“Mr. Negus, you and I can have a little chat after class about—”

“Oi, that’s a yes, folks, that’s definitely a yes. Watch out, lads, we got a killer teaching us!”

A couple of the boys chuckled, while nearly half the girls in class turned about and gave Colm looks like they were collectively trying to will the boy’s head to explode. Colm looked rather pleased with himself, and put his feet up on the desk.

Professor Weston’s shyness melted away, then, and was replaced with a very intense, austre look. He made a note at his desk, then continued on, ignoring what had just transcribed.

“Anyways,” he said, “The world is a dangerous place, our world especially. What I hope to do this term, is to train you in the three R’s of Dark Arts survival: Recognize, Resist, and Respond. These’ll be our three units for the year, so let me have you guys open up your books to page 12 in your textbook. You’ll be looking at Figure 1.1, the chart of the three different classifications of dark spells.”

Krystelle did as instructed, but Colm just a few desks behind her, seemed to be whistling instead, and didn’t so much as reach for his book bag. Professor Weston, still ignoring him, began writing on the chalkboard.

“Jinxes. Hexes. Curses. For the first third of the year, these’ll pretty much be our focus. The book lists them in order from least harmful to most harmful, but what they all have in common is they are _designed_ to inflict some kind of pain on another.”

Krystelle raised her hand, and was called on.

“Wait a minute, sir, jinxes are dark magic? But they sell whole books of them in joke shops to little kids. If that’s dark arts, why is that allowed?”

“Now see that’s a good question. Ms. Gandy, right? We’re actually going to take a moment right here to clarify something having to do with that. It’s something that _may_ not exactly be politically correct, but it’s true.

“Guys: just because we say something is dark magic, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad or evil. All we’re saying is it’s magic designed to hurt someone. That may _sound_ evil on its face, right? And a lot of the time it is. But take those jinxes you can buy in joke shops; bubblegum that makes your cheeks grow so big they hit the floor, and crazy stuff like that. That’s a kind of jinx, but it only inflicts mild discomfort for a little while. It’s meant as a prank. We don’t often think of pranks as inflicting pain, but strictly speaking that’s what we’re doing. Not that we should be ashamed of that, of course not! It’s annoying, but it’s still funny, so we like it. Sort of like Mr. Negus here.”

The class erupted with laughter, but Colm seemed to not even notice, and now moved on to singing, still staring blankly into space and tapping his desk rhythmically.

“ _She's a Killer Queen_ _  
_ _Gunpowder, gelatin_ _  
_ _Dynamite with a laser beam_ _  
_ _Guaranteed to blow your mind_   
Anytime”

 _I guess he already got what he was looking to get out of this class,_ thought Krystelle, rolling her eyes.

“So jinxes, hexes, and curses,” Professor Weston continued, “On their own, are morally _neutral_ . It’s what specifically the spell _does_ and how it’s used, that makes them good or bad. And the same goes for dark creatures. Ghosts, werewolves, banshee, hags, vampires, acromantula; anything that has a brain and can think, can be good or evil, even though we’re learning about them in the context of defending against them. Bit of a tangent there, but does that answer your question, Ms. Gandy?”

Krystelle kept her annoyance with Colm suppressed, and focused her attention back solely on Professor Weston. She nodded enthusiastically.

“Good. Now here’s me stepping down from my soapbox, so we can start hitting this book and get this school year started.”

He slapped the open book at his desk. He looked up smiling.

“Get it? Hit...the….the books…”

His smile faltered as he trailed off again. A couple people snickered, but probably not in the way he wanted. Kryselle could swear she could see the professor blushing, but that couldn’t be. Monster slayers don’t blush...do they?

“Anyways, Figure 1.1.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krystelle Gandy is owned by littlebityamelie  
> Cassie is owned by E-H-Indigo  
> Colm Negus is owned by the-mind-of-kleinnak  
> Sherrod Howe and Jefferson Watkins are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	4. The Ben Side Lighthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Potterverse setting is owned by JK Rowling

 

 _“If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by_   
_You're thinkin' like a fool cause it's a case of do or die_   
_Out there is a fortune waiting to be had_   
_If you think I'll let you go you're mad_   
_You've got another thing comin'_ _  
_ You've got another thing comin’!”

-Judas Priest, You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’, 1982

 

Krystelle left North Hall at the ringing of the lunch bell, making her way downstairs and back outside towards Central. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she figured it’d be a great chance to track down Portia and Finn again, maybe even find Fern.

She fixed herself a simple ham sandwich at the buffet, then paced about the rows of tables, scanning for familiar faces. In the sea of people at both the Music and Dance tables, side by side, she couldn’t make out either of her friends.

Upon her third lap around the hall, however, she found something which excited her even more. At the far end of the Junior table, sitting alone, was Professor Weston! He was chatting over his own lunch with a man almost as tall as he, but with much shorter, darker hair, and a more laid back expression. The other man also seemed to be more invested in his meal than Professor Weston was. Was this man the _other_ Weston brother, Salazar? If so, how were they not completely surrounded by fans? She _had_ to get in on this opportunity!

Feeling suddenly braver than usual, she immediately shuffled around the tables, dodging kids getting up or sitting down, until she eventually made her way to the two. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a small croak. She froze. Her mind went blank, and she heard her food start to tremble on the tray as her hands shook. She stood by them for a while before the darker-haired man stopped what he was saying and looked at her. Professor Weston followed his gaze.

“Uh,” said the dark-haired man, “Hello?”

Krystelle jumped.

“Oh hi!” she said, “Sorry, just, oh my gosh, um, Professor Weston is this— I’m sorry, I mean, are _you_ Salazar Weston, sir?”

“Call me Sal,” he replied.

“Oh my gosh!” she squealed, “Oh sorry again, er— I’m a big fan of both of you. Can I sit with you?”

The two brothers chuckled at each other.

“Sure, kiddo.”

“Thanks Professor Weston! And er— you too...Professor Weston.”

The older brother laughed.

“I’m _Sal_ , kid. Jared here gets to be Professor Weston. Wouldn’t want folk getting confused, would we?”

Krystelle smiled, suddenly much more at ease, and took a seat next to Professor Weston and across from Sal.

“So how come _he_ gets to be Professor Weston?” asked Krystelle, now curious.

“Well see,” said Sal, “When we were kids, I was the evil brother, and Jared was more the ‘stay-home-and-study’ brother. I figure that earns it for him. He’s taken enough beatings from me as it is.”

Krystelle chuckled, while Professor Weston seemed to be rolling his eyes.

“I’m surprised you guys aren’t swarmed with people,” she said, “I don’t know about everyone else, but I always loved the stories they tell about you guys; you’re like the Mad-Eye Moodies of monster slayers!”

“Ha!” said Sal from his belly, “Now that’s some high praise.”

“Don’t tell _Moody_ that, if you ever meet him,” said Professor Weston, smirking, “He _probably_ wouldn’t care for the comparison.”

“Oh?” said Krystelle, “You don’t get along?”

“Naaaah,” said Sal, “He’s just jealous cuz we had the easy job at the Ministry.”

“Easy?” Krystelle said, raising an eyebrow, “Hunting down mad magical creatures that could eat you? Dodging curses and all?”

Sal shrugged.

“Creatures are easy. Werewolves, rogue vampires, Fey, spirits? They’re predictable. You always know where you stand with them. It’s we mortals you got to worry about. You’ll be learning a thing or two about that come your fourth year.”

“Now come on,” said Professor Weston, “Try not to scare the girl, Sal.”

“Scared? I’m not scared!”

“Well good,” he chuckled, “Those were some good questions you asked in class today, by the way.”

“Thanks!” said Krystelle, blushing a bit, “So...how come more kids don’t come talk to you guys? You’re famous, and you’re pretty cool for grown-ups.”

Professor Weston  swallowed a bite of his salad and turned to her.

“I think most kids are kinda afraid of us. Star struck, I guess. I mean you _saw_ what Colm’s first question was back in class.”

“Oh, he’s just a little git,” said Krystelle.

“He has no filter is all,” said Professor Weston, “He said what most of the class was probably thinking. They see Sal and I as dangerous men. Comes with the territory, given our reputation.”

“I still think you handled him all wrong,” said Sal, “I would have gotten in his face like _this_. ‘Why yes, son. I am a killer. Stick with me, and I’ll make you a killer too if you’re not careful... Are you ready for that?’”

“And _that_ is why Howe only lets you teach the big kids.”   

Sal scoffed, and set to his own plate, which Krystelle noted was piled much higher than Professor Weston’s.

A short time later Krystelle was finished with her sandwich, and the bell had rung. She bade the two teachers goodbye and set off back to North Hall, where she was silently dreading having to face her least favorite subject: maths.

She arrived at Professor Martin’s room in good time. Once there, she was greeted to a classroom which was almost completely full. In the back corner of the room, however, one of the students was flanked on either side by tall, blank-faced men in dark robes and sunglasses. The girl was Krystelle’s age, with long black hair and green eyes which stared at her empty desk, almost dead to the world.

Krystelle’s eyes went wide and her heart and stomach both did backflips inside her. To the world, this girl was known as Alessa Selene, the child model most famous for being the reference for the cover illustrations of the hit children’s book series, Wendy the Wandless Witch. To Krystelle, however, she would only ever be one person: Fern Mantovani.

Krystelle remembered just last year, when Fern and her mother appeared the week of Christmas, out of the blue, insisting on setting a playdate “for old time’s sake” since they were back in town anyway. Krystelle was elated at first, but her mood quickly soured. Fern was completely miserable, and a shell of her former self; skinnier, with less laughter or playfulness like she used to know of her.

It got to a point where by the end of the playdate Krystelle outright left Fern alone because being around her was too depressing. She felt guilty even trying to play with Fern, like she was trying to cheer up someone whose Mum died. When they were really little, they used to sleep in the same bed and cuddle during sleepovers. This time Fern went and slept in a different room entirely, dragging her sleeping bag glumly behind. Krystelle didn’t stop her.

The following morning, feeling even guiltier for abandoning her, Krystelle barged into the bathroom she was using to try and apologize. What she saw went with her to this day. Her mother had forced her into some makeup and an expensive-looking outfit, then waved her wand. At first Krystelle didn’t notice any effect. Then Fern’s mother noticed her intrusion and glared, completely gobsmacked, like a child caught peeping at Christmas presents.

“What are you doing to _Alessa_?”

Krystelle’s hand immediately went to cover her mouth in shock. Alessa? Who the bloody hell was Alessa?

“GET OUT!” screamed Fern’s mother, “Nosy little—”

Krystelle nearly slipped and fell on her face as she turned her tail and sped back the way she came. She cringed as she felt Fern’s mum’s eyes on her from the doorway and called her an awful, terrible name, demanding she forget what she saw.

Krystelle ran from the room and jumped into her Mom and Dad’s bed, waking them both with her heaving sobs. She couldn’t even verbalize what she’d seen. At first she thought it was because of her crying, but even once her parents got her to calm down and stop crying, she physically could not tell them what had happened. The words screamed in her head,

_Fern’s Mum put a spell on her! And I think she did something to me too! I can’t say her real name, I can’t even talk, Mummy, Daddy, you have to help!_

But her throat and mouth tightened further, as if she were crying again, at everything but the last part:

“Mummy, Daddy, you have to help!”

“Krystelle, baby, calm down!” said Mum, “Please just tell us what’s going on? Is someone here?”

“Eeeeeeeeeh,” Krystelle tried to form words but her mouth wouldn’t obey, “Ffffffff— Alessa! Alessa’s Mum!”

“Baby, who is Alessa?”

“Heeeeeere! In the bathroom! It’s Al—Fern!”

Krystelle was shocked. She could say it again. Why could she say Fern’s name again only now?

“Something is the matter with Fern?” asked Dad, “What happened?”

“Her Mum— mmmmmmm— Damn!”

She still couldn’t say what had happened!

“What did her Mum do, darling, where is she? The bathroom?”

Krystelle could only nod furiously, and her parents immediately ran to follow. When they got there, however, they were both gone. Their room had been cleaned out, all without a trace or even a note.

Mum tied off her robe, and knelt down to Krystelle, followed by Dad.

“Krissie, baby...did Fern’s Mum do something to her, or to you?”

Krystelle couldn’t talk, couldn’t even nod yes or no. Her face just scrunched up, as if in deep pain. What was happening to her?!

“You...can’t tell us? What she did won’t _let you_ tell us?”

Still nothing. Her fists were clenched so hard her fingers felt cold.

Mum and Dad held her tight, and Krystelle held even tighter, as if for dear life.

“I’m sorry!” she told them, “I don’t know what’s happening! I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Shhhhhh,” said Mum in her ear. That always calmed Krystelle down.

“She…” Krystelle sniffled, “Fern’s Mum...she called me a...a….c-word.”

She felt her mother’s muscles all tighten at once, then held onto her even closer.

“Charlie,” said Mum to Dad, “I’m going off to the Ministry to file a restraining order against that woman. I don’t want her anywhere near me or my baby girl _ever_ again…”

Suddenly the bell rang, and Krystelle realized the whole class was seated except for her, many nearby staring at her. How long had she just been looking off into space? The professor at the front of the room cleared her throat.

“Ahem, Ms. Gandy, if you please?” she said.

Krystelle jumped, then scrambled into the last seat. She blushed furiously as she got out her notebook, inkwell and quill, and hastily scribbled what Professor Martin had already begun writing on the board.

Immediately Krystelle began to drown out what Martin was lecturing, and just tried to keep up with the notes while occasionally peeking over her shoulder at Fern. Once or twice she got the sense Fern was doing the same as she looked up from her own notebook and locked eyes with her.

She had to get ahold of her, had to talk to her somehow. But how? Judging the looks those two bodyguards were giving her, she wasn’t going to get close to her anytime soon.

 _Strange, that,_ thought Krystelle, _It’s not like the hag to leave Fern alone with someone other than her. Must be that restraining order of Mum’s._

Just then, another student, Gaius in fact, raised his hand and asked to be excused to go to the loo, and he was. He struggled to get past one of the larger bodyguards, who was now partially blocking one of the doors to get in.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Professor Martin, pointing her chalk, “Would you two possibly be able to wait outside? You’re blocking the aisles.”

The larger one scowled at her.

“I assure you, there aren’t any paparazzi in this classroom.”

The skinnier guard took the larger, meaner one by the shoulder and nodded. They both then got up from their diminutive chairs, and exited the room. As they did, Krystelle wasted no time. She scribbled a note in the margin of her notebook:

“ _Talk after class? Blink once for yes, twice for no._ ”

She then hastily folded it into a small paper airplane, and threw it to Fern’s feet as clandestinely as she could. She waited a few seconds, then when Wilson’s back was turned again, she looked back to Fern. She was holding the note. She leaned forward, squinted her eyes shut hard, then opened them again. Once for yes! Krystelle smiled, and nodded.

She was able to pay attention much easier after that. She seemed to’ve only missed the pleasantries and course objectives, and they were only just getting into the actual material. It wasn’t too difficult so far, just basic arithmetic for review, and Wilson, though rather strict, was very eager to answer questions. Krystelle especially came to appreciate that when they got to the end of the problem set for the day, two long division problems (her very least favorite kind of math problem).

Once the bell finally had finally wrung, Krystelle had already packed her things back into her pack. She threw it over her back immediately and rushed out the door to meet Fern. She half-expected the bodyguards to cart her away immediately, but to her surprised they waited beside her in the hall.

“Miss Selene?” said the skinner guard.

“It’s ok, Adande,” said Fern, “She’s a friend.”

The larger guard squinted threateningly at Krystelle nevertheless. She ignored him, unable to stop beaming like a moron.

“Hey, Alessa,” Krystelle said, then immediately covered her mouth.

“It’s ok, it’s— well, yeah,” Fern said sadly, then perked back up, “How are—?”

She was cut off. Krystelle immediately threw her arms around Fern and started quietly sobbing, still smiling. After a moment of surprise, Fern held her back.

“I’m so sorry,” said Krystelle, “I’m so sorry I just left you that night last Christmas, I wanted to say sorry in the bathroom but— mmmmm— oh god! I’m sorry, Alessa!”

“It’s ok, really really really, it’s ok…” now Fern was starting to cry, “I missed you so much, Krissie.”

“Not as much as I missed _you_ ,” Krystelle said, giggling.

Hesitantly, they split up, but still stayed close together.

“Do we have to worry about Stretch and Tubby here?” Krystelle mumbled in Fern’s ear.

“Nah, they don’t tell me what to do,” Fern mumbled back, “They just keep me from getting mobbed. Careful what you say, though, they report to Mother every night.”

“Is she here? On the island?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t let her, thank God.”

Now even Stretch started eyeing her suspiciously, so they got out of their huddle and began to speak normally.

“We really should get back in touch, mate,” said Krystelle, “Can we eat lunch sometime?”

“Ms. Selene is not allowed to have visitors,” said Tubby, gruffly.

“But,” Fern cut in, “Maybe we could grab a bite down in Church Bay sometime?”

“I’d like that,” said Krystelle, “Where you off to now?”

“Back to the cottage. I got to make sure my homework’s done early, cuz we have a photoshoot at dawn.”

“On a school day?”

Fern shrugged.

“Well, good luck with that,” said Krystelle, “Really...if you need to talk about anything, I’m here for you. Write me and send me a puffin if you need an ear.”

“Ms. Selene?” said Stretch, “We should get going, huh love?”

“Yeah,” said Fern, “I’ll talk to you soon, ok? It’s really great to know we at least got Rathlin in common again.”

“For sure!”

With that, Fern headed back down the hall and down the stairs, Stretch and Tubby in tow, a sudden haste in her step. Was she eager to be away from her? Or did she just not want to be out in the open too long?

_God only knows what that heartless b-word is doing to her. I can’t even call her by her name out loud and I still don’t know why…_

Krystelle sighed, shouldered her pack again, and made her own way back to Bowtruckle Hall.

When she arrived back in the Common Room, she set her things on the end table, and took her first good look around. It was still two hours before dinner. She may as well get to know the place a little more.

The books on display weren’t bad, though a depressing number of them were _really_ little kid books, like the Tales of Beedle the Bard. To her dismay, it seemed the entire collection of Wendy the Wandless Witch were also available to read, with the books printed in the last few years bearing Fern’s image. She picked up the most recent one, the Lost Rubies from Mars. On the cover was Fern, dressed in that stupid Wendy outfit, smiling and waving at the reader before hopping on her broom and flying into the sky.

Krystelle looked over both shoulders to make sure no one was looking, opened the book to the very middle, heaved, and hawked the largest bit of phlegm she could across both pages, before closing the book again, and putting it back where she found it.

Feeling a small level of satisfaction with herself, Krystelle continued along the perimeter of the room, observing a small den centered around a radio, and a separate one on the other side of the room for a television set (or as Dad called it, the Idiot Box). It was pretty big, compared to others she’d seen in store windows, and even had a small collection of what Krystelle assumed to be video games. For fear of breaking some part of these bizarre Muggle contraptions, she stepped away from the whole set.

A third den off from the center sitting room contained three electric typewriters, and two Macintosh computers. It seemed that Muggles were eager to invent a bigger, better Idiot Box. She giggled, feeling bad for thinking such a thing. Hadn’t she just _befriended_ a Muggle back on the ship? One that was leagues nicer than any wizard boy she ever met? Maybe she’d give one of these things a try sometime after all. They were one thing that Krystelle was sure Hogwarts didn’t have.

When she returned to the main room, she found Amy, Tina, and Ursula entering with three or four other girls Krystelle didn’t know. They were chatting and giggling to themselves as they all took places on the couches and chairs around the fireplace.

“Ok ok, now you!” said Amy, eagerly, to Ursula.

“Hmmmm…hex Professor O’Carroll, marry professor Howe, and snog...oh I don’t know. Krohnheimer!”

“Ewww the lighthouse keeper?” said one of the other girls.

“That’s the game, eh?” said Ursula, eyebrow raised, “Tina’s up next, go ahead mate.”

“Well,” said Tina, “Obviously hex Krohnheimer, sorry.”

They all giggled naughtily. Krystelle was floored. Hex who? And why? When?

“Then....I’m going to say snog Howe, marry O’Carroll.”

“Awww no way!” said Amy, “What will your kids look like? Better get the snog from O’Carroll over with so you can have Howe _forever_.”

“Sorry,” Krystelle shyly interrupted, “What are you guys saying exactly?”

“Oh, hi Krissie!” said Ursula, cherrily, “We were just playing a game of ‘Snog, Marry, Hex’. Wanna join us?”

Krystelle froze. There were far too many of them gathered around. She’d never survive in a group this big.

“I’m alright, actually,” she replied, as smoothly as she could muster, “I got to practice my drawing. Maybe we can catch up at dinner?”

Ursula shrugged, then the group of girls went on with their game.

***

Later that night, after she’d had dinner alone, and done all her homework, Krystelle lay in bed by the window, just finishing the coloring on her first sketch to send to Dora, while also completing the pencil work for her second. She looked down at her handiwork, and how creative she’d gotten near the end. Rather than just a plain lighthouse overlooking the sea, she added some green vines, and the mysterious silhouette of a girl. She didn’t quite know where that had come from, it just came up. She was just getting ready to tuck it into its proper package to send off to Dora when she heard a knock on her bedside table, on the other side of the drawn bed curtain behind her.

“Knock knock!” said Tina, as if to punctuate, “You awake, Krissie?”

Krystelle shuffled on her knees over to the other side of the bed and pulled back the curtains hesitantly. She and Ursula were there, smiling but looking concerned.

“Hey, we missed you at dinner,” said Ursula, “Where’d you go?”

“Not trying to avoid us are you?” asked Tina, incredulously.

“No no!” Krystelle assured, “I just wanted to be by myself this time so I could practice my drawing. I got this gift for a  friend over at Hogwarts and —”

“Woah!” exclaimed Ursula, seeing the lighthouse drawing, “You drew that? Yourself?”

Krystelle shrugged.

“It’s not that big a deal, it’s just a lighthouse. I didn’t even —”

“Just a lighthouse?” said Tina, raising an eyebrow, “Darling, that’s incredible! I don’t know a single person in our year who can draw like that. _I_ certainly couldn’t draw like that if I tried.”

“You could if you _tried,”_ encouraged Krystelle, “If you can write your name, you can draw. It just takes hard practice and time, that’s all. I’m sure you’re just as good at the stuff _you_ like to do.”

Tina shrugged.

“Can you draw me?” asked Ursula, excited now.

“Oh wow, I wouldn’t mind being drawn either!” said Tina, smiling.

“Uhh...sure,” replied Krystelle, nervous.

She hadn’t ever drawn a stranger’s portrait before. What if she messed it up? What if she made them look ugly? She took a deep breath.

 _Confidence. Always display confidence, even when you don’t feel it._ Especially _when you don’t feel it._

That’s what Mum had always told her. Mum was usually right.

Krystelle broadened her smile and nodded a bit firmer than before.

“Of course I’ll draw you two!” she said, “This weekend I can draw the both of you together.”

The two girls seemed to like that idea. They bade Krystelle goodnight with warm looks in their eyes. Somehow that didn’t make Krystelle feel any less nervous about the prospect, but she still was determined to push on. She was never going to get anywhere as an artist if she only ever kept her work to herself.

She lay back in her pillow and tried to relax. Only then did it hit her how exhausted she was. She’d had a bit of an emotional day back in Maths, seeing Fern. Feeling herself drift away she quickly dug herself under the blankets and was soon fast asleep. She didn’t even close her poster curtains back up.

Her dreams were peculiar that night; peculiar and frightening. She imagined she was floating above the school on a cloud with no clothes on. She felt her face go red hot and her throat tightened from how embarrassed she grew as the cloud floated to the ground, but that lessened as she realized that the entire academy was deserted; no lights and no people.

Upon realizing this, she felt more relaxed, but was suddenly stricken by how cold she was. No sooner did this occur to her than did a heavy, fluffy blanket fall onto her head. She tried to find the edge of it, but there didn’t seem to be one. She was trapped now, under this stiffling heavy cloth, finding it increasingly difficult to breath. She felt compelled to scream for help, but no noise escaped from her lips, no matter how hard she pushed air from her lungs.

The blanket was pressing her hard against the ground now; she couldn’t move a muscle. She was naked, paralyzed, terrified, and now she couldn’t breath at all.

_Tap...._

_Tap…_

_SLAM!_

Krystelle awoke with a start, panting deeply, checking herself. She had her pajamas on once again, and she had found herself buried under a mountain of her blankets. Had she been so restless that night as she slept? And what had woken her—?

_SLAM SLAM SLAM!_

She turned to the window, and nearly screamed all over again. A dark silhouette shone against the light of the lamps outside.

Krystelle’s heart skipped, and she froze.

“Psst!” she whispered over her shoulder, “Tina! Tina wake up! Someone’s by the window!”

Silence.

_SLAM SLAM SLAM!_

Krystelle winced. How did they not hear that? She wanted to scream, to run and get Amy or Gaius and call someone, but she daren’t move. She was too frightened. She just stared into the window.

It was then she realized this figure didn’t look like a big person, in fact they looked to be about her own age. Maybe it was another student who was in trouble? Relaxing a bit, she got out of bed, walked on over to the window, and opened the latch. The figure grabbed the edge of the window as soon as it was open just part way, preventing Krystelle from opening it further.

“The Lighthouse,” the figure whispered, “You need to get to the Lighthouse!”

Krystelle swallowed hard.

“Are you ok?” she asked, “Which hall do you live in? Are you lost?”

“ _Nooooooo!_ ” the strange girl hissed, “Listen, this is a matter of life or death. There’s something at work here that you’re a part of. The Rowans have chosen you to be a catalyst of things to come. Now go. Wake the Negus brothers, and take them to the Lighthouse. Pay attention. Don’t be afraid, but don’t get too close. Be at the Lighthouse by the stroke of three, or else.”

Krystelle was frozen. It took her several seconds to even process that these were all demands, and by that time, the girl had run off back through the bushes. Krystelle felt her face grow hot, her still-tired eyes watery. How was she supposed to react to that? Who were the Rowans? And why did they want her to go bother the Neguses?

_Besides, it’s past midnight. If we’re caught out of bounds, it’ll be our heads! We could get detention or worse!_

Krystelle hated getting in trouble at school. She could be bratty to her parents, but not to a teacher. It always made her feel sick. Shaking her head, she started climbing back into bed, trying her best to forget what just happened.

Then she dared look at the clock on her bedside table. It was nearly quarter to three. She looked back out the window, her thoughts racing. How much trouble would she really get in just for going for a walk? The lighthouse wasn’t too far, and she was bringing a big kid with her. What was the worst thing that could happen?

Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, she slipped back out of the covers, threw on a pair of shoes and her fluffy robe, and—

“Ahem. Where do you think you’re going?”

She froze, and turned at the whispering voice. The painted woman! She must not have seen or heard the girl. How was she going to explain this?

“Bad dream,” Krystelle lied quickly, “Need to go to the bathroom and get some air.”

_That was three excuses at once, kid, slow down._

“Don’t take too long,” said the painting.

Krystelle could hardly take her eyes off the painting’s, sleek, dark and disapproving as they were, as she slunk out into the hallway and headed upstairs. She cringed with the creaking of every step on the staircase as she turned round the corner and down to the boys dorm hallways. Thankful for the ambient hall lights, she checked doors off as she read the names by each of them.

“Hey, there she is!”

She looked down the hall. Finn and Colm were already out, in their own slippers and pajamas. Colm had pointed her out.

“You’re Krystelle, right alyona?” asked Finn, approaching, “Now I _know_ that couldn’t have been a dream.”

“You saw her too?” she asked.

“Hard to forget a gal floating outside a second-story window,” he replied with a nervous chuckle.

“I thought she was a ghost,” said Colm, “You know, like they got over in that other place? Hogswallup?”

“Hogwarts,” Krystelle corrected.

“Sure, but it wasn’t no ghost, girl,” said Colm, firmly, “I poked her in the face to prove it. She didn’t like that…”

“So…” said Finn, “I guess we’re off to the Lighthouse, eh? I mean how can we refuse after that?”

Krystelle shrugged, then motioned for them to follow. They headed back down the stairs, and out into the chilly Autumn air. The shadow of the Ben Side Lighthouse stood off to the East against the glow of the moon and lights off the village. Krystelle swallowed hard.

“Let’s hurry up,” she said, “Before someone sees.”

They hustled, following the sidewalk and the signs to where they ended, eventually reaching a paved maintenance road. That lead out to a dirt road, with some ways to go still. Krystelle was thankful she had the sense to put on her real shoes, suddenly feeling bad for how dusty and muddy Finn’s expensive looking red slippers were getting.

“So far so good,” said Colm (a little too loud for Krystelle’s liking), “Why the Lighthouse, do you think? Think maybe it really is haunted?”

“Haunted?” Krystelle asked.

“Ahhh, just stories, lassie,” said Finn, “See, it’s a popular mystery around the island who exactly Ben Side is. Nobody seems to know. Best story I’ve heard though? If’n you’re interested that is.”

Krystelle shrugged again.

“You keep doing that, you’ll kill your posture, mate.”

He giggled, and Krystelle blushed, then scoffed.

“You see,” he went on, “Some say Ben was a pirate captain from the 18th century. Born and raised in Ireland, he found his way over North Carolina-ways when he enlisted in the Royal Navy. He got fed up with how the English captain were treating him and his crew, so they showed the fool what for, marooned him. Then he sailed the oceans blue and raided the British Colonies, ravaged the coastlines up and down, taking what was rightfully his from the Protestant heathens!

Krystelle slowed her pace, suddenly more mindful of her surroundings. She heard the cooing of the puffins, the ominous crashing of the waves, the cool in the air seemed to grow frigid as she smelt the spray of the sea in the air.

“Ahh the redcoats chased him from here to Kingston back and forth for years, never catching up, till they cornered him in the cave of Robert the Bruce, right under the Lighthouse. They sunk his ship, and all the treasure with it. They say the vengeful spirit of Captain Ben Side still haunts the place, ready to slit the throat of any foolish Englishman...or woman...for daring to disturb his rest.”

Krystelle’s breath was caught in her throat.

“AAAAAARG!”

She screamed, forcing herself to cover her mouth to silence herself. Something clawed at her shoulder! She looked back. It was only Finn, his finger curved like a pirate’s hook, his eye closed as if behind a patch. Both he and his little brother were laughing hard enough to bust a vein in their foreheads.

“Would you two _stop_ ?!” she demanded, hissing, “We’re _trying_ to be quiet, _remember_?!”

Suddenly the two grew deathly straight faced. Krystelle stepped back, not a little bit shocked. She wasn’t used to being listened to so readily like that. She sighed. Now she felt bad.

“That’s better. I mean that _was_ a good story, and you got me good it’s just—”

She paused. The two seemed to be looking at something behind her.

“Someone’s coming!” said Finn, half yelling half whispering.

Krystelle turned back. Two figures _were_ running right at them, coming straight from the direction of the Lighthouse.

“Hide!” said Colm.

Krystelle looked at either side of the dirt road. There were no bushes to hide behind, no rocks, not even any tall grass!

“Over here, just get down!”

Finn ran over to the side of the road and got flat on his stomach into a particularly shadowy bit of ground. Colm and Krystelle weren’t far behind him. Krystelle squirmed as her belly was stabbed by the soggy grass, and the mud soaked into her robe.

_Oh God, please don’t leave a stain. Mum’ll kill me!_

All three of them held their breaths as the two figures sped off past them. Against the light of the nearby lamp post, their shadows were too dark to make out who they were. As they emerged from their hiding place and looked back, Krystelle could only figure they were students. They were too short to be teachers or staff. And why would teachers or staff be running away so fast anyway?

“Someone’s in a hurry,” said Colm.

“Aye,” said Finn, “Like a bat outta hell, that.”

Krystelle’s head darted back to the dark, grim Lighthouse, which seemed to have grown much taller and scarier, the bulb atop emitting only a dim orange glow.

“What if they were running away from someone?” she asked, screeching a bit, “Or something?”

“Yeah....” Finn trailed off, “Yeah, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this, we should—”

A flash. A scream. Pain. The ground seemed to shake beneath their feet as it felt just like two ice picks were being forced into Krystelle’s ears. Every muscle in her neck tightened and her eyes welled with tears from the pain. A voice seemed to emerge from the demon whail, like ghostly sobbing.

“NOOOOOOOOO! NO COME BACK COME BACK COME BACK! BRING IT BACK!”  

Krystelle felt the ground hit her back, hard. Then there was only blackness.

When she regained consciousness, she was back in a soft, comfy bed. Krystelle sighed in relief. It really _had_ all been a dream after all. She smiled softly, her bearly, foggy eyes falling shut again as she hoped for sleep to return. The bed was soooo comfortable.

“Quite pleased with yourself, are you Ms. Gandy?”

Her eyes shot open, this time clearly. She wasn’t in her dorm at all. She was in a much larger, longer room, all lined with at least a dozen beds in all. Proped up as she was, she saw Finn and Colm sleeping in two beds across from her. To her right, Professor Watkins’ glaring, yet still cool expression looked down on her with squinted eyes.

“Only your second night here, and already looking for trouble, are we?”

Krystelle swallowed hard.

“Professor Watkins...I swear, it wasn’t our fault, I swear, please you have to believe me!”

“So a strange girl intrudes into your dormitory, demands that you run off to the complete opposite end of campus at an ungodly hour, and you just roll right along with it, do you? If she had told you to leap into the sea when you got there, would you have done that as well?”

Krystelle only stared blankly, at first.

“How...I mean...what was—?”

“We know about her, of course. And we know what she got you to do. It’s for that very reason we’re not slapping a month’s worth of detention on the lot of you. Let this be a warning to you. Leave your dormitory after lights-out again, for any reason that’s not immediately life-threatening, and there will be consequences.”

He turned to leave.

“But Professor! Please, who was that? And who was it that was screaming?”

He turned back around.

“The island is home to many Beings. Some mean well. Most, even. But there are some you would do well to avoid. That particular trickster prefers to remain anonymous for now, else I’d have no qualms with telling you. As for the inhabitant of the lighthouse, that is quite classified. Suffice it to say that what haunts the Lighthouse is not actively maleficent to you or any other student, so long as they are not provoked. That’s all you are at liberty to know.”

“But sir—!”

“Good day, Ms. Gandy. You are excused from class for this morning, but you will be expected to attend your Fourth Period class. Best take advantage of the rest.”

With that, he was out of the clinic.

Not five minutes later, Finn rose with a start from his own rest.

“Wuh...what happened? Krystelle? What happened last night?”

She looked at Finn with a mile-long stare.

“I...think we had a run-in with Captain Ben.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krystelle Gandy and Fern Mantovani/Alessa Selene are property of little-bity-amelie  
> Fern and Colm Negus are property of the-mind-of-kleinnak  
> The Weston Brothers are property of Warner Brothers Television


	5. Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Potterverse setting is owned by JK Rowling

 

_ “I'm just an average man with an average life _ _   
_ _ I work from nine to five, hey, hell, I pay the price _ _   
_ _ All I want is to be left alone in my average home _ _   
_ _ But why do I always feel like I'm in the twilight zone and...? _ _   
_ _ I always feel like somebody's watching me _ _   
_ _ And I have no privacy _ _   
_ _ I always feel like somebody's watching me _ _   
_ __ Tell me is it just a dream?” 

_ - _ Somebody’s Watching Me ft. Michael Jackson, Rockwell, 1984 

 

Krystelle awoke the next day exceptionally thankful to have gotten a night’s rest in her own bed. The hospital bed had been so stiff and scratchy. What’s more, she had a much lighter spring in her step as she washed and dressed. Today was her first ever drawing class! 

Just before she left her dorm to get to breakfast, as she gathered her book bag and jumper, she also took notice of the three drawings she’d done for Dora. Only  _ To the Lighthouse _ was colored in and ready to send. She’d have to make sure to send a gull to Hogwarts as soon as she had a spare moment. She hadn’t been at Rathlin three days yet and already she’d found herself overwhelmed. The incident with the shadow girl and the lighthouse still troubled her. She hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to the Negus brothers or  _ anyone  _ about it. 

Who was she? Who or what were “the Rowans”? Why was Dr Watkins treating Ben Side’s ghost like such a dark secret? Hogwarts had loads of ghosts, why was this one any different? 

_ Well he  _ did  _ scream so hard he knocked you out. That’s something different.  _

 

But then, if he was a dangerous ghost, why did they let him so close to the school? 

The bell rang, and that snapped Krystelle out of her thoughts. She now only had thirty minutes to eat before class. 

After a quick breakfast, she made haste to Ulster Hall across the Academy quad. The sour smell of felled berries filled her nostrils as she tramped over several patches of them under the three dead trees. When she finally arrived at the brass and marble facade of the Rathlin College of Fine Art’s teaching hall, she wasted no time in finding Professor Esmeralda’s classroom. Krystelle fondly remembered how Professor Esmeralda always used to come down for lessons in primary, teaching them about the greats like Artemisia Gentileschi and Frida Kahlo. 

_ Michaelangelo, my arse! Why didn’t Dad learn about  _ those  _ artists?  _

In good time, Krystelle found her seat among the many which circled the raised platform at the center of the classroom. She blushed as she realized that this was probably the same room where the 7th Years drew real life naked people. 

_ Dora would probably love that class,  _ thought Krystelle, smirking. 

The door opened, and immediately a hush came over the crowd. The woman in the bright red robes had smooth, ebony skin and dark hair. She wore a pair of strapped sandals, and an assortment of ornate rings and bracelets of various metals which jangled as she walked. Her long braid flipped in an arch behind her as she took her place at the podium, besides the chalkboard.   
“Good morning, children,” she said, serenely, her accent just noticeable, “I am Professor Esmeraldas Russell, Head of the College of Fine Arts, and your Life Drawing teacher. Did everyone have a good summer? Did you?”   
She nodded around the room as she got shy outbursts in the affirmative. 

“Good, good. I really hope you’ll enjoy this. Drawing is, perhaps, the oldest form of self-expression known to man. Next to fire and agriculture, the conveyance of meaning through images is perhaps the most vital element to human excellence.”

She started writing on the chalkboard. 

“First lesson: Learning how to draw or paint is not dissimilar to learning a new language. This term, I will be, essentially, teaching you your ABCs, and we shall go from there. For some of you, this may be very boring at first, but don’t worry. I will be offering extra credit near the end of the year which you will be free to work on once your regular class exercises are complete. More on that after class. For now, we’re going to start with a little story.” 

Krystelle was surprised at that. A story? What kind of story? 

Professor Russell summoned a stool from the back of the room with her wand, eliciting several “ooo”s and “ahhh”s from the Muggle students, who obviously weren’t used to magic. She took her seat and began with, 

“Once, a long time ago, in the far east, there was a famous painter. He had been famous for miles around for the beauty of his paintings, his delicate colors, his dizzying perspectives, his figures so lifelike they appeared to leap off the canvas! So legendary was his work that the king made the long journey up the mounting which the old man lived. 

“‘Master,’ said the king, ‘Paint me a picture of my beautiful palace, and I will grant you riches beyond your wildest imagination. You needn’t even travel there, for your mountain is so tall, I can see my palace plainly from up here!’ And the old man agreed. ‘What time will the painting be completed?’asked the king. ‘Just wait,’ said the old man, ‘And I will paint the finest painting you’ll ever hang in your palace’. 

“So a week went by, and eager for his painting, the king traveled up the mountain to see, and found the most gorgeous painting he’d ever scene. The gorgeous, brilliant palace sat proud in a field of green. ‘Fantastic!’ said the king, ‘I will happily take my painting now.’ 

“‘What?’ said the old man, ‘Oh no, my king! It is not finished! Please, return another time, and I shall make this painting such that the gods themselves will bless whatever house it dwells within!’ The king was disappointed, but very eager to have such a painting, so he left. Another week later, he returned, and the painting was even more beautiful than before! The picture was so crystal clear, that you could see the fine details of the mural which adorned the facade of the king’s palace; each and every flower in the palace garden was in bloom, and waved back and forth in the wind.

“‘By Vishnu,’ said the king, ‘By my thone! I have never seen such master work! Surely the gods will bless my house when I bring it home this day.’ 

“‘What?’ said the old man, “Oh no, my king! It is not finished! Please, return another time, and I shall make a painting so marvelous, so enticing, that all of your subjects shall honor your home for a thousand years!’ 

“Again, the king was disappointed, and growing rather annoyed, but so great was the old man’s talent, he had no choice but to trust him. And so it went, week after week for many months, the king would come to the man’s home at the top of the mountain, and the painting would be even more beautiful than before, but the old man would say ‘Oh no, my king! It is not finished! Please, return another time.’ 

“Finally, the king grew tired of waiting, enraged. One day, he came to the top of the old man’s mountain as he so often did, only this time...he brought his royal executioner.” 

Several of the students gasped. 

“No!” whispered Tina, as if trying to warn the old man. 

“So, the king broke down the door of the old man as he sat hard at work at the easel, the grand palace of the king glimmering in gilded glory, lacquered, with the artist’s signature in the corner. The painting, at last, was finished. The old man smiled as the king broke in, and handed the painting to the executioner happily.  
“‘Just tell me this, old man,’ said the king, ‘Why did this take so long?’ As if to answer, the old man walked over to the adjoining room, slid back the door, and revealed an entire room packed wall to wall with paintings of the royal palace, each one even more beautiful than the last. 

“Shocked, the king asked the simplest, most obvious question he could have. ‘Why?’

“‘Because,’ said the old man, ‘The master knows that true mastery, and therefor, the greatest beauty, can only come through repeat practice, repeat failure, and repeat learning. This is true in art, as well as in life.’ And so it was that the king brought home a painting onto which the gods would bestow their blessing upon any house within which it dwelt, a painting which earned the respect and admiration of the people for a thousand years.’ The end.”

The students gave an awkward, modest applause, and Professor Russell gave an almost self-satisfied smile. 

“Thank-you, children,” she said, “So what was the point of that story? Can anyone guess? Yes, Ms. Krystelle Gandy?”

Krystelle froze at the woman’s gaze. Something about it was both intimidating and oddly sedating. 

“Umm, well, practice makes perfect,  basically, right?” 

“Yes, Ms. Krystelle Gandy,” said Professor Russel with a smile, “So I want our beginners to keep this in mind moving forward. It will be very tedious at first for everyone, but I beg you to stay patient and stick with this. Everybody loves an artist, and I truly believe that with practice, anyone can do it. Now, we’re going to start off with our basic shapes and prisms.” 

Professor Russell turned out to be right; it  _ was _ an incredibly boring first lesson, if you already knew how to draw. By the time she had gotten to drawing pyramids, Krystelle was already finished drawing three different examples of every kind of prism or shape she could think of, and was already working on this ‘extra credit’ the professor had mentioned. The image she settled on was of Professor Russell’s jewelry-adorned hands and wrists, coming from off-frame at either end of the paper. She was already ready to start coloring by the time the bell rang, and she was so engrossed in the process of getting the fingers right, she barely noticed it when she was the only one left in class. 

“Impressive, Ms. Krystelle Gandy,” she heard Professor Russell from closeby, “Most impressive.”  
Krystelle blushed as she came back to her senses. 

“Sorry,” she said, starting to pack her things, “I was just—” 

“Oh, no need to apologize. It’s quite extraordinary. You did all this in one class period?”

Krystelle nodded, feeling the jealous eyes of many of the other students all around her.

“Interesting. How long have you been practicing?”

“Um...since I was like, four, probably.” 

Krystelle wasn’t very confident in her answer. Truthfully, she couldn’t imagine any part of her life when she  _ wasn’t _ drawing.

“I suppose we can already guess what  _ your _ major will be?” Professor Russell winked, smirked, then walked off without waiting for Krystelle to reply. 

Krystelle had to shake herself back to her senses yet again from the bizarre interrogation, then took her books and shuffled away. Now she was running late to sculpting! 

***

_ Is...is that a wig? That’s got to be a wig, right? Maybe this guy is a clown when he’s not teaching?  _

Professor Magee’s hair was certainly a spectacle: a large, blonde afro that seemed...tilted, somehow, on his head. Combined with his huge handlebar moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses, he  _ would  _ look the part of a clown, if his expression weren’t so severe. After he finished writing on the chalkboard and started scanning the class, a round of whispered and hushed giggles rolled around the room. 

“I suppose you must think this is all dreadfully funny,” he said, voice like a near-dead lightbulb, staring blankly at Silvia Gardner.

She burst out laughing immediately, and many others in the class followed suit. Magee let out a strange, dull honk from his nose, rustling the hairs of his whiskers, then walked slowly back over to the podium. 

“Get used to this, folks, this is just how I talk normally.” 

Now even Krystelle couldn’t help but let out a round of giggles, along with nearly all the rest of the class. 

“Yes, yes, thank you thank you, now if we may settle down...class?” 

Krystele had stopped laughing now, and froze with shock as she noticed nobody else stopped laughing. The fun was over, right? She was wracked with guilt as she saw how uncomfortable Magee was looking. 

“I...I can wait…” 

He crossed his arms, slowly tapping his foot. Krystelle felt like she was gonna cry...then that sadness turned to fear as Magee’s tapping increased...and kept going faster...and faster, his face redder and redder….

 

“WOULD’YA  _ MIND _ Y’SORRY LIL HOOLIGANS?!” 

The room seemed to shake. The room grew deathly quiet, everyone frozen upright, eyes wide, as Magee panted and fumed, sucking in breath hard with rage. 

Just then, Magee grew calm again, took a deep breath in and out. 

“Aaaaand, scene.” 

With a flourish he removed the glasses and moustache, now shown to be all one disguise, and ran his fingers through his huge tuft of curly hair. So  _ that  _ part was real. 

“Play-acting, or dramatics, is perhaps the oldest of all the arts.”

_ Huh. Must be something all the art teachers tell everyone? First Professor Russell, now this bloke?  _

From the first time a human being ever tried to tell a falsehood and convince another it was true, humans have been, all of us, performers. _ Totus mundus agit histrionem,  _ ‘all the world is a stage’. That was the motto of the immortal bard, William Shakespeare, as immortalized on the arch of Globe Theater. This will also be the central mission statement of this term’s curriculum. 

“Performance is a skill you will need in your regular life; job interviews, speeches, or, if you are amendable, the stage itself. Remember this moving forward. Now — first thing on the docket this year, improvisation! I trust you will all have written down the page numbers for the reading this week, so let’s get right down to brass tacks, shall we? Everybody get in a big circle around the class, just so.” 

Krystelle followed some other kids, including poor Gaius, and put her back against the wall along with everyone else. From across the room, she spotted Fern, looking positively gorgeous in a high-collared blouse and elegant beige skirt, band in her hair. She smiled at Fern and waved to try to get her attention. 

“Alessa! Alessa!”

She covered her mouth and cringed, but Fern nevertheless met her eyes. Thankfully, she smiled and waved back. Magee then took an empty spot right beside her. 

“Now, then, my lambs,” said Professor Magee, “We’re gonna start off with a very simple game, just to give you all an idea of what this class will be like. I’m going to say a word, then Ms. Selene will say a word to start off a story *about* that thing. You’ll each say a single word of the story, one at a time, all the while keeping in mind the subject I assign. Now let’s give it a try,” he turned to Fern, “Potatoes.” 

Fern started. 

“The.”   
“Potato.”

“Was.”

“A.”

“Small.”

“Vegetable.”

“In.”

“A.”

“Large.”

“Farm.”

“But.”

“It.”

“Dreamed.”

“Of.”

“Being.” 

It was Krystelle’s turn now already. Her head was already spinning trying to keep track of the story, and now she had to say something? 

_ Oh god, it’s already been too long. Say anything! Anything!”  _

 

“Anything!”   
“But.”

“A.”   
“Potatoe.” 

Krystelle took a deep breath. Hopefully nobody minded too much. Maybe nobody even noticed? 

…

_Another pause. Is it my turn again already? Oh no…_ _  
_ “Potatoe!” 

The whole class laughed, and Krystelle’s face grew terribly hot. She squeezed one eye closed, and the other halfway closed before running across the circle out into the hallway. She gripped one of the statues by the base and quietly cried through her teeth. She couldn’t remember being so embarrassed. 

“What’s the matter, Krys?” 

She turned around. 

“Alessa...sorry. Stage fright.” 

“Just try and picture everyone naked. S’what I do during most of my photo shoots.” 

Krystelle felt her face go even redder. 

“Girls?” 

Professor Magee had stepped out into the hall with them. 

“Is everything alright?” 

Krystelle took a deep breath, then nodded.   
“Good,” he said, smiling, “I know many people don’t perform well in front of crowds, especially to start with. Statistically, people fear public speaking worse than they fear death.” 

He gave an actual smile at that, oddly enough, and this encouraged Krystelle to head back into the room and finish the class. She made a mental note to try and transfer out of this class before it was too late. The stage definitely did not suit her. 

During class, however, she couldn’t help but notice the one person in all the improv games who seemed to be even more nervous than her. Gaius, at times, flatly refused to participate, it seemed, as he kept falling asleep in his chair. One time, he was even caught sleeping while leaning against the wall. Before the end of class he had to excuse himself to go to the nurse’s office. 

Krystelle couldn’t help but squint at him as he walked out. She saw him go to bed at the same time as the rest of them did. Why would he be so tired and aloof? Did he sneak out too? And if he did...oh well. She would talk to the others about it. They had all agreed to meet in the library as soon as classes were over. They’d work on homework together, and maybe find a book on this ‘Ben Side’ person. 

“Any luck?” she asked, when they finally got to it later that day. 

“Lots of books on the Golden Age of Piracy,” said Finn, “But cannae find a thing on Ben Side.” 

“Did you check the indexes?” asked Portia. 

“No...I’ll double back!” 

He sprinted off back to that section of the library. 

Krystelle and Portia returned to the table they’d chosen, with their own books, when suddenly they heard the massive oak doors of the library open. 

“Alessa Selene!” Portia gasped out loud. 

The librarian promptly shushed her. 

“Sorry,” she said, quieter, “That’s Alessa Selene! Without her bodyguards too!” 

“She’s a friend of mine,” said Krystelle, waving her over. 

“No way!” 

“Sure. We go way back. Hey!” 

Another shush from the librarian. Krystelle bit her thumb at her in her mind’s eye, but otherwise ignored her, instead rushing to Fern’s side and squeezing her tight in a hug. 

“Hi,” she said to Portia, bashfully, “Nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” Portia replied, “Nice work on that last February spread in Witch Weekly! I heard the Bulgarian Orchestra and Dance Society bought up that collection for themselves? Bet that was a great windfall, eh?” 

“Great...what?” 

“Nevermind. It’s really great that you took the time to hang out with us, I know you must be terribly busy.” 

“You don’t know the  _ half _ of it,” said Fern, dismayed, “Krystelle only told me a little. What exactly  _ happened _ last night?” 

Colm interjected just then, slamming his own too-high stack of books onto the table. 

“Some shadow girl flew up to our room and creeped on all of us and got us to go to the lighthouse, and then there was this scream, and then--then, after the scream, the one at the lighthouse, we all passed out, and it was  _ probably _ a ghost pirate.” 

Finn came in not far behind him, lightly setting a single book down. 

“Wat’s t’score, eh girl? Pardon my brother, this is probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to him. He’s Colm, I’m Finn.” 

“A pleasure,” said Fern, with a curt nod, “What’s this about a...ghost pirate? And a ‘shadow girl’?” 

“That’s basically all there is to say about it,” said Krystelle, “We tried to ask Watkins but his mouth was shut tighter than a Gringotts’ vault. So if he won’t tell us what almost killed us, we’ll just have to find out ourselves.” 

“I see. So what’s with all these books on pirates in general?  _ Golden Age of Piracy: a Muggle History, Blackbeard’s Seven Seas,  _ this...this isn’t even a nonfiction book, this is  _ Treasure Island  _ by Robert Louis Stevenson... _. _ ” 

“What?” Finn asked, taking the book, “Colm!” 

“You said get every book I could find about pirates!” 

“Yeah,  _ real _ pirates, y’daft —” 

“SHHH!” 

The librarian looked very stern now. 

“I’m not going to warn you again!” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Fern, looking away in shame. 

An awkward, pregnant pause filled the air before one of them spoke up again. 

“This one might be promising,” said Krystelle, picking up one of Portia’s books, “ _ Rathlin Academy: A History,  _ by Bathilda Bagshot.” 

She flipped through the pages. 

“Looks like a pretty meaty volume on the whole history of the island. Look how little the letters are! It even has three whole chapters on the history of the island before Robert the Bruce ever even came here. Nice find, Portia!” 

Portia smiled, and tousled Krystelle’s hair. She had to consciously stop herself from squeeing, though her blush probably gave her away, she figured. 

They searched and skimmed for nearly two hours, but found no luck, not a single mention of Captain Ben Side. Once the school bell tolled the bell for dinner, they all called it a night, and agreed to meet later to search more. Krystelle did, however, make a point to check out  _ Rathlin Academy: A History.  _

 

_ If Ben Side ever existed at all, and really died in Robert’s Cave, it has  _ got _ to be in this door stopper.  _

She hoped so. It wasn’t just curiosity that drove her in this, but fear. Her parents had given her a lot of privileges growing up, and made sure she was aware of how fortunate they were compared to so many others in Wizarding Britain. However, the one area where they refused to shelter her, was in the knowledge that their world, hidden from Muggles, was a very dangerous place. So many things out there could hurt or even kill a little girl like her, and not think twice about it. The idea that one such creature might be living less than a mile away from where she slept and studied, troubled her more than she cared to admit. 

Thankfully, by the time she had filled herself up on baked chicken and salad, her fear had lessened grately. She was able to start reading Bagshot’s book that night, in bed, with a clear head. After less than an hour, the dreadfully dry tome had put her fast to sleep. 

Krystelle Gandy and Fern Mantovani/Alessa Selene are property of little-bity-amelie

Fern and Colm Negus are property of the-mind-of-kleinnak

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krystelle Gandy and Fern Mantovani/Alessa Selene are property of little-bity-amelie  
> Fern and Colm Negus are property of the-mind-of-kleinnak


End file.
